Cut the Cord
by yousopugly
Summary: Blaine feels like a balloon. He knows it's only a matter of time before he shrivels completely and then he'll fall downwards, picking up speed until he lands in a mangled heap on the rocks below.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This was originally a one-shot I posted on Tumblr and I had several demands to make it into a multi-chaptered fic in order to 'fix things'. The first chapter is told from Blaine's perspective but some later chapters will be from Kurt's. It is set after their breakup and is extremely angsty. You stand warned.**

**TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal thoughts/attempted suicide (if you would like more info, feel free to message me either here or on Tumblr!)**

**I've created a playlist to go with this fic which you're welcome to listen to while you read. Some of the songs relate directly to Blaine or Kurt, others just augmented my mindset when writing. Here's the link: watch?v=tCf_v94B7Hs&list=PLRvWTLctWgkImRb0EIEuYclbb7HXc-Yhi**

**If you enjoy reading this story, it would mean a lot to me if you'd vote for it in this competition: /stories/42398 (just add '*www*Inkett*.com*' in front of it and then click on the heart to vote!)**

He feels like a balloon. He's been drifting, always drifting, since middle school when he suddenly didn't fit into the world anymore, when he stopped making his parents proud. Kurt had momentarily grabbed hold of him as he floated by, attaching a string onto him so he wouldn't drift off again, grounding him for the first time since he was a kid. But then Kurt had had too many new, exciting things to grab hold of in New York and suddenly he'd been fumbling with the string as it slipped through his fingers. One gust of wind and he'd let go of Blaine completely.

So now here he is, drifting alone again, trying not to think about what's below him. He can feel the air leaking out of him, too slowly to notice unless someone was_ looking_. But nowadays, no one is; they just stare right through him. He knows it's only a matter of time before he shrivels completely and then he'll fall downwards, picking up speed until he lands in a mangled heap on the rocks below. The string that had once felt like an anchor will twist around him, choke him until there's nothing left. Ironic that a lifeline will ultimately destroy him.

The thing is, though, he knows it's his own fault. It's too draining to pretend otherwise anymore. He might as well have taken a pair of scissors and cut the string out of Kurt's grip himself. Sometimes he thinks he did. His parents always did tell him that he brought these things on himself, that if he just tried _harder_, these things wouldn't happen to him. He deserved everything he got and they were tired of him. He doesn't blame them; he's tired of himself.

Somewhere along the way, he has forgotten what he is fighting for. The fake, bright smile that he used to put on for performances has become the only smile he knows how to wear. It's painfully unnatural to him whenever he catches fleeting glances of himself in the mirror or in pictures, yet no one else seems to notice. Or perhaps he has distanced himself enough that they simply no longer care. He vaguely registers that this revelation ought to sting but, as usual, all he feels is numbness—starting somewhere in his chest and spreading out towards his fingers and toes. It had terrified him at first; now, he likes it.

As he sits there on his bed and stares at the wall (completely blank, all the posters and pictures long since torn down), he wonders for the billionth time why he still insists on drifting like this? Why he doesn't just stick a pin in himself so all the air rushes out faster? _Why doesn't he just end it?_ At first he'd dismissed them as stupid, rash thoughts and then, as they'd become more appealing, he'd convinced himself that he was far too much of a coward to actually go through with it. But if he has nothing more of himself to lose, no one else left to hurt, what's the point of his body even being there, wondering around in a useless, never-ending routine?

He gets up slowly, stretches his arms above his head and relishes the small, satisfying crack of his shoulders. As he empties all the little pills from the bottle he'd found in the bathroom cabinet onto his desk, lining them up in neat rows of four, he feels so calm; the calmest he's felt in months, really. Once they're arranged in a perfect formation, he debates which row to take first. He selects the one furthest away from him in the end and pops it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue before swallowing it down, chasing it with a gulp of water. He vaguely registers his phone buzzing on his nightstand but he's too transfixed by the tiny dots on his desk to pay it any attention. They're so small, yet so powerful; he is in awe of them. He pops another in his mouth, then another, and another after that. His phone vibrates again, persistent, and he wonders if he should have said goodbye to people, or at least left a note. But then, who would really care? They'd only try to stop him out of moral obligation and he's too tired to get into that argument. Besides, he refuses to be a burden for a moment longer. Isn't that the point of all this?

Shrugging to no one, he swallows three more pills in one go, not even intermittently swigging back water anymore; he likes the way they stick in his throat slightly, a barely-there scratch. Ten more and he starts to feel drowsy so he scoops up the remaining little ovals in his hand. He curses under his breath when he realises he has ruined the pattern and _isn't that just typical?_ He shoves the whole handful into his mouth before he can ruin anything else; this time he has to take a gulp of water to physically make himself swallow them all.

Lying back on his bed, he rolls onto his side and stares at the empty wall again. He wishes his life was a blank canvas too, wishes he could start over. But he can't and this is the next best option. As he slips unconscious, his eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord, he feels relief trickle through him. He doesn't have to disappoint anyone anymore; he can stop feeling numb and just fade away into nothing.

He has been a balloon for far too long; he's sick of it. He wants to fall to the ground already and if he has to give himself the final shove, well, so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

It's three AM when Kurt gets the call. He's just got in from a fundraising party at which seemed to have succeeded in its aim of getting as many of the rich investors drunk as possible. He lost track of how many cocktails Isabelle had shoved into his hands after the second one so, sue him, he may be a little drunk as he stumbles through the door. He tries to close it quietly behind him (Rachel gets angry if he interrupts her beauty sleep, despite her and Brody's disregard for _his_) as he slides his phone out of his jeans pocket, a difficult feat when they're the tightest pair he owns. Cursing under his breath as he almost drops it, he toes of his shoes and then glances at the screen. He promptly panics when he sees his dad's name flashing up at him. There are only two reasons his dad would be calling at this time of night; either he is hurt (Kurt's mind flashes to heart attacks and ambulances) or someone else in the family is. He presses the 'answer call' button so fast, his finger nearly slips and declines it.

"Hello?" He says breathlessly, a brick of foreboding cementing itself to the lining of his stomach.

"Kurt?" It's his dad's voice and although it sounds off, slightly shaky, there's no trace of physical pain in it. That does little to reassure Kurt. He roughly yanks the curtains shut around his bed, no longer caring if he wakes Rachel.

"Yes, dad, what's wrong? Is it your heart, have you had another—"

"Woah, Kurt, slow down. I'm fine." Kurt feels his breath leave him in relief, yet his heart doesn't stop pounding. Not yet. "But, um, look, there's no easy way to say this—"

"Oh God, it's Carol isn't it? Or Finn, he's been a clumsy idiot and crashed his car, hasn't he?"

"No, Kurt, they're fine. Will you please just calm down and let me finish?" His dad's voice is controlled, but there's still an edge to it that's causing the brick to roll over inside him. He bites his bottom lip to stop himself from interrupting again, not noticing or caring when he tastes blood.

"It's Blaine." Kurt's stomach feels like it drops out of him and he leaps up as soon as his dad says the name, an instinctual reaction of shock. He hadn't even considered it would be _Blaine_. "He—God—he tried to kill himself last night."

His dad's voice makes this weird little half-choking noise as he speaks, as if he's desperately holding back a sob. Kurt feels numb. He blinks unseeingly as the words whirl around his head, trying to process them.

"He…no, he wouldn't…he just—no!" The last word leaves his mouth as a shout and he can hear the rustle of sheets coming from Rachel's patrician but _he does not give a damn_ because Blaine has tried to take his own life and his dad is murmuring soft, soothing words in his ear and, God, when had he started sobbing? A million different emotions are swirling around inside of him, shock, guilt, anger, grief are all fighting for dominance, but the only thing he can focus on is the continuous chant of _'tried to kill himself'_ reverberating inside his head.

Rachel, looking sleep-mussed and grumpy stomps into his patrician, her silk pyjamas rustling too loudly for Kurt's ears, but her mouth snaps shut when she takes in the tears streaming down his face and the way he's clutching the phone to his ear like a lifeline.

"Kurt! What—Is it your dad, is he—?" She rushes over to him, hands trying to wrap around him and stroke his hair all at once. Kurt shakes his head dumbly and her eyes widen, hands clutching tighter.

"Finn?" She mouths and when he shakes his head again, she sinks down onto the bed next to him.

"Is he—Is he going to be ok?" Kurt chokes out to his dad in a lull between sobs. He needs to know, doesn't know what he'd do if—

"I don't know yet." His dad says truthfully and if _his_ voice is trembling, Kurt knows it's bad. "Carol was on the night shift at the hospital, that's how she found out, and she rang me ten minutes ago. I just know he overdosed on pain medication and passed out. He was found just in time and he's had his stomach pumped but—but they're struggling to revive him, bud."

"No!" Kurt says again; he's never felt so helpless. "He's-he's going to be ok…He has to be ok…"

"I know, kiddo, I know." Burt says soothingly but it provides no comfort. Kurt gets up and begins groping for his passport in the top draw of his nightstand. He has to get back to Ohio.

Rachel grabs him again and stops his movements at the same time his dad says, "Look, use that emergency card I gave you to get on the next flight home and I'm gonna hang up now in case Carol rings with news, ok? Do you have someone with you?"

"I—yes, Rachel, she's with me,"

"Good, ok. I love you, Kurt, and we'll get through this. I'll see you soon."

"I love you, too." He stutters out before ending the call. Rachel looks at him, practically vibrating on the spot with anxiety.

"Blaine?" She whispers. Kurt can only jerk his head in response, sobs ripping out of his chest again. He doesn't understand why Blaine has done this; he's talked to Finn, thought Blaine had been handling their brake-up fine. In fact, he remembers being slightly hurt when Finn had merely said Blaine was a bit quieter, a bit more reserved, than usual. He was angry that Blaine wasn't really affected while he, Kurt, felt as though he'd been torn up into a million pieces, scattered on to the floor and then clumsily picked up and reassembled, a few pieces missing. But clearly Blaine hadn't been fine. Clearly, he'd been the opposite of fine because even during those darkest moments on the first few nights after Blaine had told him, even when he thought his heart was broken beyond repair as he watched endless re-runs of Project Runway and cried into his ice cream, even then, he'd never considered taking his own life. What sort of pain did someone have to be in to try something like that? And why hadn't he contacted him, found out for himself how Blaine was doing? God, he'd never forgive himself if Blaine wasn't ok. Scratch that, he'd never forgive himself even if he was ok (and he had to be ok, damn it).

The next few hours pass in a blur of booking plane tickets and emailing teachers to tell them he'd be missing Monday's lessons and lectures, Rachel helping him pack because he's in no fit state to remember such inconsequential things as socks. She calls him a taxi to the airport but he doesn't really remember checking in or waiting in the departure lounge. He has a vague recollection of sitting on the plane, staring blankly at the seat in front of him, and knows he's probably going into shock because he still feels numb and can't focus on anything but _Blaine, Blaine, Blaine_ and how it's all Kurt's fault until he's racing up the stairs of the hospital, the elevator having taken too long to arrive.

He half-walks, half-runs through the doors leading to the corridor where Blaine is, the oh-so-slow lady on reception having given him directions. He jerks to a stop when he sees Carol conversing with a male doctor outside what he assumes to be Blaine's room, two more men standing outside it.

"Carol, is he ok? What's going on?" The words slur into one slightly as he rushes to get them out, but Carol seems to understand him, placing a comforting but firm hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the seats opposite the door. She forces him to sit down before perching next to him.

"He's better—more stable, but he'll need to be monitored closely over the next few hours and he has to remain under suicide watch indefinitely. Doctor Morton was just telling me they're hoping he'll wake up soon." Her voice is gentle and understanding, yet also matter-of-fact in that nurse-like way. Kurt nods and gets up, walking over to the door. But as soon as he approaches it, the men block his way, one of them smiling sympathetically at Kurt.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't go in. He's not allowed visitors yet, only his parents have permission to see him." The man (a security guard?) explains nicely. To Kurt, it sounds condescending.

"I need to see him," Kurt protests, but they don't budge. "I'm sure his parents won't mind, I'm his b-" He cuts himself off as he realises he doesn't even know what he is to Blaine now. Friend? Ex-boyfriend? Someone he used to know? Kurt sags a bit, feeling defeated and so, so useless.

He crosses back over to the chairs and sinks down heavily into one, resigned to waiting. Carol wraps an arm around him and he leans into her touch slightly, grateful for the warmth if nothing else.

It's another hour of numbness and frustration as his thoughts loop round in an endless slideshow and he tries not to let his anxiety grow into a fully-fledged panic attack. It isn't until early evening, once Carol has finally gone to get them both coffee, that the door opens, the security men stepping aside as Mrs Anderson walks out, her face pale and drawn, dark circles and smudged eyeliner around her eyes. Kurt has never seen her anything but completely made up and put-together, always in a skirt suit even when at home, as if poised to rush into work at a moment's notice. Often, she is waiting to do exactly that. Yet today, she looks exhausted and, well, a mess. That scares Kurt.

He rises shakily from his chair and steps forward slightly to get her attention. Her mouth opens when she sees him, eyebrows rising in recognition, and then she does something Kurt had never expected Mrs Anderson to do in her life: she hugs him.

"Oh, Kurt, I'm so glad you're here." She murmurs as her fingers clutch at his back. "He'll be thrilled to see you when he wakes up," She awkwardly withdraws her arms from round him, patting him on the arm.

"How—How is he?" Kurt asks, heart in his throat.

"He's…He'll be fine." She says after a pause, no conviction in her words, and then glances down at her hands before looking back up at Kurt. "Would you like to go and sit with him for a bit?"

Kurt nods far too quickly and she smiles weakly, gesturing to the door behind her. The security guards look annoyed but are clearly under strict instruction not to argue with Mrs Anderson so reluctantly step aside to let Kurt through. She pats him on the back one last time before walking through the main doors out towards the stairs, possibly to make a coffee run of her own.

He holds his breath as he pushes the door open, not quite sure what to expect. He feels too much of nothing when he sees Blaine's tiny form, so much smaller in the big hospital bed, and takes in the paleness of his usually-tan face, the drip sticking out of his arm and the faint bleep of a heart monitor.

He takes two more hesitant steps into the room, the door swinging shut with a soft click behind him as he stares at Blaine's emotionless face, and then he can't stop himself; he rushes to Blaine's side, gently capturing his hand between two of his own.

"Blaine," He says, somewhere between a moan and a whisper, bending down slightly to press his lips against Blaine's limp, cold fingers. He doesn't let himself think how they feel like a corpse's fingers. It's not until he hears the soft, awkward cough that he realises he's not alone; Mr Anderson is sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room, arms folded across his broad chest as he watches Kurt.

"I—sorry," Kurt murmurs, carefully replacing Blaine's hand on top of the blankets , not missing the way Mr Anderson's eyes follow the movement. He hears him sigh and prepares himself for some homophobic comment but it never comes. Instead, Mr Anderson just sighs again, rubbing his hands over his face and then tugging on his hair in a very Blaine-like gesture.

Kurt draws a chair closer to the bed and sits as close as he can get to Blaine, his knees digging into the side of the bed. He doesn't speak again, not out loud anyway, but he never takes his eyes off Blaine's face. The lump that seems to have taken up permanent residence in his throat swells until he thinks he might suffocate. He knows that face too well, and yet he feels like he doesn't know it at all anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Blaine notices is that he's no longer drifting, but neither is he lying deflated on the ground. He's caught somewhere in between, a makeshift string haphazardly attached to him to stop the falling, just enough air pumped into him to keep him suspended in this limbo state. The second thing he notices is the dull, pounding ache in his head and the soreness of his stomach. Then he registers the bleeping inextricably associated with hospitals.

His eyes try to fly open but can't, instead fluttering uselessly against the brightness. When the dancing black spots eventually fade, he sees a white ceiling with a high heel-shaped stain in the corner. He turns his head to the side slightly, wincing when his brain seems to rattle inside his skull, and his eyes meet his father's where they're fixed on his face. He almost feels guilty when he takes in the dark circles shadowing them, but the friendly numbness has returned and quickly puts a stop to it. Its then that he notices that someone else is sat near him and turns his head the other way to see Kurt—_Kurt_—perched much closer than he'd expected.

"Hey, you," Kurt says softly, but it doesn't sound like Kurt. It sounds like desperation.

Blaine's about to reply when he realises he has nothing to say. What could he possibly say to right such a long list of wrongs? _I'm sorry I cheated on you. I'm sorry I tried to kill myself. I'm sorry I failed. I'm sorry I've disrupted your life-again- with my stupid melodrama. I'm sorry I'm such a burden. Why don't you hate me? _P_lease hate me. _

Kurt takes his hand in his, interlocking their fingers together, and doesn't even pull away when Blaine doesn't respond, his fingers remaining lifeless. Blaine's certain that if it weren't for the numbness he would be crying by now and he almost misses the hot burn of tears as they crawl out of his eyes. Kurt doesn't speak again, and neither does Blaine's father, all three of them staring at his and Kurt's interlocked fingers.

His father gets up after a moment and walks out the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He returns soon after, accompanied by a doctor and his somewhat hysterical mother.

"Oh, my baby, I've been so worried!" She sobs, rushing over to the bed and wrapping her arms round Blaine in an uncharacteristic show of affection. The movement causes Blaine's hand to slip out of Kurt's grip. He buries his head in his mother's neck and inhales the familiar scent of her perfume, allowing himself to be comforted by the illusion of childhood innocence. She hasn't called him 'baby' since he was ten. When she finally pulls away, Kurt has gone.

"How are you feeling?" His mom asks, placing a shaking hand on his forehead. Blaine looks at her, but still has nothing to say. He wishes he'd succeeded, wishes he was lying blissfully unaware on his bed and never had to find anything to say ever again. _Why do I fail at failure? _He wonders, closing his eyes so that he can see nothing but black once more. The doctor does her various tests, checks his physical symptoms and asks him questions he doesn't know the right answers to. After a while, he simply ignores her. Instead, he counts his inhales, each one forcing more air into his lungs, air that he shouldn't be using but somehow is.

He still feels like a balloon, only now he's got a gash in his side that can never be undone. He has been haphazardly patched up, before the last wisps of air could drift out of him. But, really, who were they kidding? It is only a matter of time. They don't care whether he's shrivelled and lifeless, a rubbery mess on the floor—No, as long as he doesn't disintegrate completely, as long as he doesn't hit the rocks under their watch, they're perfectly content for him to be as broken as he likes. He feels sleep dragging him downwards again, not quite down enough, but it'll do for now. He thinks about nothing and hopes that the puncture will rupture while he's asleep. Not much longer, he promises himself, maybe you can rest soon.

It's dark when Blaine wakes again, but he can make out Kurt's silhouette next to him, his magazine long since discarded on the floor. Kurt's murmuring fragmented sentences to himself, presumably not aware that Blaine is awake. He only hears little snippets when Kurt's voice rises in volume slightly.

"…and I should've done…fault…didn't realise…you hate me…"

"I don't hate you." Blaine speaks before he even realises his lips are moving and digs his nails into his palm when he hears Kurt inhale sharply.

"Then—then why wouldn't you look at me properly?" Kurt asks, his voice so quiet as if he's scared of startling Blaine, of chasing him off.

Blaine wants to say that he's looking at him right now, but he doesn't. "I don't have anything to say." He answers instead, truthfully.

Kurt doesn't speak again for a long moment, presumably contemplating Blaine's statement. "Ok," he says eventually. "That's—ok."

"Sorry," Blaine says, unsure whether he's apologising for his lack of words or something—everything—else.

Suddenly, Kurt's cool fingers are touching his again, only now they're forcing them to uncurl. It's only once he's managed it that Blaine notices the warm flecks of blood on his palm from where his nails have been digging in too hard. He thinks he should find the little red crescents beautiful, but he doesn't; they're ugly little smiles smirking up at him, aware of their victory.

Kurt sighs and Blaine rolls over, facing the empty wall instead, cradling his injured hand with his other one. He doesn't speak again and after a moment, Kurt picks his magazine up and slips quietly out the room. Blaine wonders if this will be the time he doesn't come back.


	4. Chapter 4

Kurt does come back.

He comes back at least twice a day for the next three days, looking paler and paler each time but always impeccably dressed (_there's never an excuse for bad fashion choices, Blaine!)_

It is Blaine's favourite part of the day when Kurt tentatively opens the door to his room, as if afraid of what he'll find on the other side, and Blaine gets to fix his eyes on Kurt's studded sweater, or the scarf that Blaine is certain he's never seen before (a gift from a new boyfriend, perhaps?), or the lace-up boots that make comforting little scuffing noises when Kurt walks. He enjoys them so much, those few, precious seconds of innocence when he can appreciate Kurt's fabulousness from afar, as if for the first time. It's such a shame that the actual visits themselves are always his least favourite part of the day.

He dislikes the awkward silence that squats around them until Kurt settles on today's chosen small-talk topic; more often than not, it's the weather, or tales of customers at Burt's tire shop, neither of which interests Blaine in the slightest. He hates the way Kurt's fingers fiddle incessantly with his clothing, destroying what little magic it held for Blaine when he'd first entered. Kurt used to hate it when people fidgeted. He detests how Kurt asks every half hour whether he can get Blaine anything, a coffee perhaps? It's always on the tip of his tongue to tell Kurt that what he'd really like is a new life or, better yet, to not exist in the first place, but he knows it would be futile, cause Kurt yet more unnecessary upset. But the thing that gets to him the most, the thing he can't _stand_, is the look in Kurt's eyes when they flicker over his face, so uncertain, as if they're trespassing somewhere they're not allowed. It's not so much the pity in them; he is used to that by now, his mother and father haven't stopped looking at him in pity since he woke up. No, it is the hard, almost imperceptible fear in them that makes his stomach roll and his palms sweat, his fingers itching to dig into his palms.

Kurt is afraid of him.

On the fourth day, Blaine is certain he's about to go insane—more insane, he reminds himself humourlessly—if he's trapped in this purgatory for much longer. He feels claustrophobic, confined not only by the patronisingly white walls, but also by his own skin, and he longs to feel something other than stale hospital air, anything to remind himself he's human, that he doesn't have to live forever. That's why when the young nurse knocks quietly on the door before bringing in his lunch (she always knocks, though why Blaine has no idea, it's not like he has any more of his soul to cover up), he asks her when he is allowed to go home.

She starts, taken aback that he's actually speaking to her, before smiling broadly at him in such an overly-enthusiastic way that Blaine wonders whether she is genuinely one of those imperturbably happy people or whether she is putting on an act for his benefit. _Or maybe_, says a little voice inside his head, _maybe she's putting it on for her own benefit, sound familiar, Blaine?_

"Keen to be out, are we?" She asks, her voice light and melodious and so, so young. "I'll just pop and ask Doctor Kazaki for you, wait here a moment."

_What else am I going to do, jump out of the non-existent window?_ Blaine thinks sarcastically as the nurse places the tray down on his lap table and hurries out the room again. She leaves the door open this time, just enough so Blaine can make out the hustle and bustle of the hospital corridor beyond. He watches as an old man limps past with a Zimmer frame, two male nurses in blue scrubs jogging up behind him, clearly in a hurry. He observes the doctor entering the room opposite, catches a glimpse of a bed identical to his, the door clicking shut before he can make out a face.

His nurse re-enters a moment later, a coffee pot in one hand. "Good news," She sings, pouring Blaine a cup of coffee that he hasn't asked for. "You can go home tomorrow, if you'd like. Doctor Kazaki will just need to speak with your parents about a few things and have them sign the discharge papers, and then you're free to go!"

Blaine moves his mouth up into a small smile, his lips feeling dry and stiff.

"Thanks," He mutters, breaking his sandwich into small pieces like he always does, wondering if today will be the day he actually eats some of it.

He doesn't in the end, but he feels fuller anyway.

It is late evening by the time his father comes in, sitting gingerly in the seat next to his mom. He remains quiet for a moment, unconsciously twisting the wedding ring on his left hand. It looks too polished, too pristine, and Blaine whether he leaves it off more than he actually wears it. Either way, he's jealous of its shininess. He wishes he could be unblemished too, but he's been dropped in the sink too many times for that, mostly by himself, and now he's covered in thousands of little scratches, invisible unless someone held him right up to their eye. No one gets that close to him anymore.

"It's all sorted." His father says as his mother enters, rubbing his hands together as if he's just successfully completed a business transaction. Blaine wonders why his own definition of 'sorted' differs so completely to his father's. "I signed the papers and took the numbers for those psychiatrists the doctor recommended so you can go home tomorrow."

A feeling of foreboding creeps over him, constricting his chest.

"Psychiatrists?" He asks quietly, hating the tremble in his voice.

"Yes, sweetheart, Doctor Kazaki said you needed someone to talk things through with and I—"

"—You didn't want to be that person?" Blaine finishes viciously.

His mom freezes, her eyes wide and scared.

"No, not at all, honey, your father and I just think your needs are beyond us right now."

Blaine doesn't miss the way she includes his father in her statement. Safety in numbers.

"I'm not talking about my non-existent feelings with a complete stranger." He closes his eyes, wondering whether he can get the nurse to make them leave.

"Blaine, don't fight us on this." His father's voice is firm, unmoved when he speaks and Blaine's eyes reopen of their own accord. He suddenly feels uncontrollably angry.

"When have I ever fought you, dad? When have I ever done anything but obey your wishes?" he shouts, ignoring the footsteps of a nurse hovering outside the door. Of course, he knows the answer to his question as soon as he says it and it makes his blood boil; Blaine has always been the perfect son in every single respect except one: he's gay and, despite his father's best efforts, he can't change that fact. And he should know; he'd spent the better part of two years trying.

His father glares at him, disproportionately angry, and then strides out the room, shoving rudely passed the waiting nurse. His mother dithers for a second, like she always does, and then, giving him a sympathetic look, follows his father, like she always does.

Blaine feels like he's falling downwards again, but he's not deflating fast enough; he's going to feel it when he hits the ground, and it's going to hurt like hell. It already does.


	5. Chapter 5

Blaine had always been a passionate person. Yes, Kurt knew he was vulnerable and insecure, too; that much he had discovered when they'd begun dating and Kurt had stopped flat-out idolising him. But nevertheless, get him talking about why he enjoyed performing, or which were his favourite Broadway shows, or why he loved his brother so much, even though sometimes Cooper made him want to tear his hair out, or even what made him so angry with his father all the time, and Blaine's passion was undeniable. And that's exactly why Kurt finds his current apathy about everything so terrifying. Because he might have seen Blaine cry and scream and shout, might know exactly what to do in those situations, but he's never seen this total indifference to everything and, as a consequence, has no clue how to act around him. The worst part is that he's certain Blaine knows this, that he can tell Kurt is struggling and it's making the unrelenting tension that stretches between them even more painful. And Kurt knows better than anyone that things that stretch eventually break.

So, yes, he is terrified when he pulls up on the Anderson's drive the day after Blaine is released from hospital and walks up to the large, imposing front door. Mr Anderson opens it before Kurt can knock, and Kurt is grateful for small mercies.

"How nice of you to visit, Kurt." Mr Anderson says, standing back to let Kurt in, his stiff posture and forced smile suggesting the very opposite of his words. "You can go straight up—he, er, hasn't been down for breakfast yet."

Kurt nods and makes his way up the stairs, ignoring the fact that the clock in his car had said 1.37 when he'd arrived and that Blaine therefore had no intention of coming down for breakfast. When he reaches the top, Kurt stops to look at the picture on the landing wall (probably one of Mrs Anderson's 'priceless' masterpieces passed down to her from her father) where a group of shepherds wearing long, Biblical tunics seem to be squinting at him, their narrowed eyes conveying a sense of superiority despite their lowly occupation. He's suddenly very aware that he has always hated that picture even though he has never taken the time to properly look at it before.

He wonders what Blaine is doing shut up in his room by himself and various horrific scenarios, the majority containing excessive blood, fill his head as he crosses the landing and knocks on Blaine's door. When there is no reply, he knocks again, this time receiving a muffled "I'm not hungry."

Stealing himself, he opens the door slightly, wide enough to poke his head round and survey the room. Blaine is lying on his bed, still in pyjamas, face up on top of the covers, with his arms and legs spread out on either side of him. He looks like a child making a snow angel.

Kurt moves a bit further into the room, taking in the untouched water and toast on his nightstand and the overnight bag lying by the door, presumably abandoned when Blaine got in from the hospital yesterday. Kurt internally winces at the discarded items of clothing flung on the carpet, but he lets them be, unsure whether Blaine would want him to sort them out.

Blaine looks up, momentarily startled, and then he sees Kurt. Sighing, he rolls over onto his front so that his face is pressed into the duvet.

"Hi, Blaine," Kurt says cautiously, standing in the middle of the room awkwardly. "I just came to see how you were today…" He trials off, aware how stupid he sounds.

Blaine rolls his head to the side long enough to mutter, "I'm doing wonderfully today, Kurt, a night in my own bed did the trick!" in a bitingly sarcastic voice, before turning it back into the duvet.

For a moment Kurt is so taken aback by how Blaine-like the remark is, that he moves towards the bed, as if being physically pulled, and perches on the edge, carefully placing a hand on Blaine's pyjama-clad back. He's brought back to reality when Blaine flinches so badly that the whole bed shakes and quickly removes his hand, apologising without really knowing what he's sorry for.

_I'm sorry I tried to touch you. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm sorry you don't trust me anymore. _

"I brought the latest issue of Vogue with me. I mean, it's not even officially published yet but Isabelle let me have a copy so I could be even more ahead of trend than I already am—God, I love that woman—anyway, I wanted to show you how _divine_ the new Marc Jacobs collection is because, honestly, I was speechless when I first saw it. I think you'll love it." Kurt stops when Blaine doesn't reply, his face resolutely pushed into his duvet, his upper body shifting slightly as he breathes.

"Or, um, or I could go and make you some of my renowned turkey sandwiches?" he tries again. "Your dad said you hadn't had breakfast yet so I could do a sort of lunchtime brunch?"

Blaine remains silent, doesn't so much as turn his head and suddenly Kurt feels like the ceiling is lowering on them. As if someone is pushing it downwards, it gets steadily closer to the top of their heads and soon, if he remains sitting here like this, it's going to descend far enough to engulf them, breathing swirling whiteness swirling around until they are dissolved into nothing. And even as Kurt feels the dizzy, rapid breaths of a panic attack coming on, he knows he can't let the ceiling consume them. He just can't.

He gets up too fast, the room slightly out of focus, and almost trips over Blaine's discarded jeans as he walks to the door. He doesn't even notice whether he closes it behind him or not, he only knows he needs to get away from the confines of the fog-like ceiling.

As he crosses the landing, the disparaging eyes of the shepherds follow him, wondering why he fears whiteness so much when, to them, it is merely a deliverer from evil. Suddenly, Kurt feels a profound sympathy for the shepherds.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine waits until he hears Kurt reach the bottom of the stairs and then rolls over to stare at the ceiling again. He's pretty sure it's the only thing stopping him from floating out of the house and into the vast expanse of winter sky. He's not sure whether to be grateful or infuriated. He settles on a maddening confliction of both. Everything about him is conflicted nowadays.

Kurt's frightened again, only this time it's worse because he can't stand to breathe the same air as Blaine. He knows, logically, that this should create a whole new level of hurt, but it doesn't. The numbness is still lodged inside him, a comforting pillow and an unbreakable restraint all at once.

_Maybe the numbness is conflicted as well_, Blaine thinks as he stretches his hands above him, palms facing upwards, fingers outstretched. His nails are probably too long, he can see them peeking out over the tips of his fingers, but locating nail scissors and then actually cutting them is far too much effort. What difference does it make if they keep growing anyway?

He's still a balloon and he hates it. The string he's attached to keeps entwining around people who stand too close to him, pulling inwards and gently ensnaring them against him. Then, without warning, the string unwinds rapidly, pushing away with too much force, strangling them and breaking pieces off himself in the process. Everyone else disappears after the first wring of their necks, but Kurt, he keeps coming back for more, the process repeating itself in one long, masochistic cycle. How many times can one person be strangled before their neck snaps? Blaine isn't sure, but he knows it can't go on for much longer. It's exhausting, it really is.

Kurt returns ten minutes later, eyes definitely red around the edges, clutching a tray of turkey sandwiches like they're the only thing preventing him from falling through the floorboards. Blaine can't be bothered to roll over again so he watches silently as Kurt places the tray on his dresser, pushing Blaine's cheerleading trophy out of the way to create more room.

He carries the plate over to the bed, hovering awkwardly until he realises Blaine isn't going to take it and then placing it gingerly next to him on the blanket. Blaine continues to ignore it, his eyes still following Kurt as he retrieves his own plate and perches gingerly on the other end of the bed, careful to avoid Blaine's feet. He begins to eat and Blaine feels decidedly…as he watches his mouth open and close round the bread, then chew delicately. He doesn't stop though.

"You need to eat something," Kurt says after he's swallowed, his voice slightly scratchy.

Blaine sighs and sits up, pulling the plate on to his lap. The motion earns him a small smile from Kurt and he immediately regrets it. He stares down at his sandwich, the neatly cut triangle with the perfect layers of meat and salad stacked inside, a tiny bit of mayonnaise leaking out one corner. He lifts the bread off the top and peels the turkey out, starts tearing it into little pieces.

"I wish I'd succeeded." He comments suddenly, not really aware he's saying it out loud. He doesn't care either way.

"What?" Kurt asks nervously, his sandwich dropping onto his plate as that dreadful look of fear augments.

"I wish I was dead." He continues, piling the now-shredded turkey into a neat stack next to the bread. "I wish those pills had done their goddamn job and I was lying in a morgue right now, my pulse stopped and my eyes permanently closed. It would be a lot easier, really. If I were dead, that is. Sometimes I wonder if I should try it again, but if I didn't manage it the first time, what are the chances of it working this time, you know? I wish it had happened the first time. I really wish I was dead."

"Stop it."

Blaine looks up at Kurt's fierce command, watches the fire filling his eyes.

"Huh?" He asks and for some reason that makes Kurt angrier because he stands up so fast that the plate on his lap falls to the floor, smashing loudly, the pieces flying off in all directions.

"I said stop it." Kurt looks so livid and Blaine loves it, feels his pulse pick up for the first time since the pills made it slow; it's as if all the numbness fades, just for a second, and Blaine can feel vicariously through Kurt. It's glorious.

He shrugs and laughs internally as the fire in Kurt's eyes intensifies, the sparks mingling beautifully with the natural waves of blue that run through them.

"Don't you dare say that! Don't you dare ever say that!" He shouts and the fire is pouring out of his mouth now too. "God, you have no idea do you? Did you not even think about—what the hell was going through your head?"

Blaine feels his forehead wrinkle in confusion; isn't that part obvious?

"I wanted to die." He says, wondering why Kurt is being so stupid. In fact, it's sort of irritating him in a detached way.

"It was just so selfish!" Kurt continues, his eyes flashing, the waves clearly unable to extinguish the flames. "Did you not even think about what it would have done to everyone around you?"

"Fuck off, Kurt." The cuss feels wrong, oddly shaped in his mouth but he spits it out anyway.

"What would I have done, hmm? What would Sam have done? And Cooper? Christ, what would _your mom_ have done?" Kurt is gesticulating wildly now and Blaine watches his pale fingers swish through the air. They're such pretty fingers.

"Bought a new dress for the funeral and then swept me under the rug along with all the other embarrassing incidents connected with me probably—and believe me, there are quite a few."

Kurt's mouth closes and his shoulders slump, the life falling out of him. Blaine flinches as the fire goes out instantly, no glowing embers to soothe the transition.

"God I—sorry, I shouldn't have—ugh!" Kurt punches his own thigh in frustration, his pretty fingers scrunching up. "Look, I shouldn't have said any of that. I shouldn't have called you selfish, I didn't mean it. I don't actually think that about you."

Blaine blinks at him.

_Don't you see? _He thinks, his pulse slowly retreating back to normal now the fire has gone. _I'm not annoyed because you think I'm a selfish burden, I'm angry because it's true, because I think that exact same thing fifty times day and you just reminded me of it again. Fuck. _

"I think—um, shall I— I'm going to go now, ok?" Kurt says in a hurried babble, his voice unnaturally quiet after the shouting.

_No, not ok. _

"So I'm sorry, again, and I might see you before I go back to New York?"

_Please do. Please don't leave me. I need your fire so much. _

"Bye, Blaine." He pauses, dithering and looking like he did when Blaine first laid eyes on him: small, defeated and afraid. "Just—just remember to breathe sometimes, ok? It's alright to stop and breathe."

_Please teach me how I can breathe without hating myself for it. Please, please, please._

Kurt pats his shoulder awkwardly—everything is so awkward all the time now, Blaine hates it but loves the momentary ache it causes in his chest, even as he flinches away from the contact—and then walks out, pulling the door to behind him with a timid thud. Blaine lies back down again, lets the ceiling fill his vision.

_Please. I can't bear the cold. _


	7. Chapter 7

He drifts in and out of consciousness for another couple of hours and then realises he should probably clean up the broken china before his mother gets back from her book club. She hates unnecessary mess.

He forces himself to sit up, wincing at how weak his abdominal muscles have become since he stopped working out. Or, really, since he stopped doing anything other than lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, occasionally the wall. He dangles his legs off the edge, brushing his feet back and forth over the wooden beams and enjoying the slight drag as his skin catches on the hard surface. He can see one piece of white poking out from under his sock drawer, the edge obviously having broken away from the rest of the plate, yet surprisingly non-serrated. The other pieces are smaller, awkward to pick up and scattered between his bed and the chest of drawers.

Exhaling slowly, he drops to his knees and begins to pick the little white lumps up, piling them in one hand and resisting the urge to curl his fingers and crush them against his palm. He pauses when he can't hold any more and looks around, wondering where to dispose of them. His eyes find an empty tissue box next to his nightstand and he pulls it towards him, depositing the fragments in the oval-shaped hole. He continues this process until all the smaller bits have been cleared up, listening to the slightly offbeat ticking of the two clocks next to his bed. He'd stolen one from Cooper's old room, the other from the guest room a couple of months ago when the silence had grown too much to bear. He sort of thinks he'd prefer the silence now; the relentless ticking is getting on his nerves.

He's about to get up when he realises the biggest piece is still under his drawers and crawls over to it, reaching out a hand to gingerly pick it up. It's too big to put in the tissue box so he holds it for a second, traces the too-smooth fissure down the edge and wonders if this is what Kurt's heart looked like, right after Blaine smashed it into a thousand pieces. He wonders if the cracks were this neat or if they were uneven, digging in painfully whenever Kurt moved. He wonders if anyone picked the pieces up again and, if so, whether they simply discarded them, like Blaine is doing now, or carefully forced them back together, mismatched puzzle pieces neatly jammed into one another. He wonders if it's still not mended properly, if it's still just a tangled mess of scars criss-crossing along Kurt's insides. He sort of hopes so because then he wouldn't be quite so alone.

His phone bleeps and he goes back to the bed to check it, dropping the shard of plate in the bin at the same time. It's Kurt. His thumb moves of its own accord as it swipes across the screen, unlocking the phone and opening the message.

_Sorry about earlier, I shouldn't have reacted like that. You're going through a lot and I was just a complete jerk about it. Send me a text so I know you're ok. Sorry._

Blaine stares at it for thirty seconds, wondering how he feels about the words before the screen goes black and he decides to feel nothing at all. He doesn't reply.

The front door opens and closes, signifying his mother's return, as Blaine lies back down on his side, tucking his hands under his head and thinking about emptiness. He syncs his breathing with the ticking clocks and, yes, he definitely needs to get rid of them later. They're going to drive him insane.

His mother calls him down for dinner a while later and he reluctantly gets up once more. He's really not hungry, but last night, for the first time in months, he couldn't get away with skipping his evening meal; his mother had come to get him. He clutches the banister as he walks down the stairs; for some reason he's become terrified of falling since he's been released from hospital. It's so ironic it hurts.

He slides wordlessly into his chair, just like last night, and watches as his mother spoons food onto his plate before setting it down in front of him. She smiles unconvincingly and waits until his father is also seated before launching into today's trivial but harmless conversation topics. Blaine really couldn't care less what Belinda thought about _TheGolden Notebook_ but it's easier for all concerned to let her keep rambling. His father seems to reach the same conclusion and offers pointless agreements in between mouthfuls.

"…So anyway she's invited us round for dinner, which I thought was very kind of her."

"Mm," His father concurs, barely listening.

"And she said you'd be very welcome too, Blaine, isn't that nice?"

He looks at her, uses all his strength not to snap out a response. He pushes more peas under his mashed potatoes, watching the whiteness engulf them.

"They've got a son about your age apparently so you'll have someone to talk to. It'll do you good to get out and socialise a bit—"

"I'm not going." He says between gritted teeth.

"Oh," His mum looks taken aback that he's spoken. "Oh, well, we'll see how you feel nearer the time I suppose."

"I said I'm not fucking going." Both his parents flinch this time; he's never sworn in front of them in his life. His father almost says something, Blaine watches his mouth twitch, but then he simply picks up his empty plate and leaves, glaring at Blaine as he does so.

There's a scraping sound as his mom stands up abruptly too, the wooden flooring resisting against the chair legs. Her manicured hands smooth down the front of her dress and she looks anywhere but at Blaine as she murmurs something about ringing Trudy and charity balls before calmly leaving the room. She really hates unnecessary mess.

He doesn't bother clearing away the plates, his still full, afraid he'll run into his father in the kitchen, and heads back upstairs instead, clicking his bedroom door shut behind him. He has another message from Kurt and wonders whether it is the sudden anger from dinner that's making his hand shake, or something more.

_I completely understand if you'd rather not, but I was wondering if you wanted to come round tomorrow before I go back to New York? Let me know :)_

He thinks about ignoring this text too, but then decides that anything is better than staying in his room with his mother hovering outside all day. He sends a simple 'Ok, see you about eleven?' and tries not to read too much into it when Kurt replies instantly with 'Sounds great! I'm looking forward to it!'

He goes to bed even earlier than usual, Annoying Clock Number One telling him it's only quarter to eight; he feels overly-tired and it's not like he'll actually sleep anyway. He's grown accustomed to floating like a balloon, but he prefers drifting through dark skies than daylight, likes the cool, slightly damp air that encompasses him at night. The way no one on the ground can see him as he hovers uselessly above their heads, observing without being observed. In the middle of the night, alone in his room, he can drift anywhere he pleases and linger for as long as he likes. So, he flicks his light off at 8:47 and allows images of pale skin and genuine smiles fill his head until he's suspended in the liminal space between sleeping and waking. It's as close to happy as he's capable of being and that's better than nothing, right? It has to be.


	8. Chapter 8

When Kurt wakes up the next morning, he is full of hope. Yesterday, he'd stopped pretending and now he knows. He knows that Blaine isn't ok, not even close, and it's going to take more than a pat on the back and a cup of tea to make him better. A lot more. And that's fine, because the more Kurt thought about it yesterday, the more he realised that he hadn't exactly been a good friend to Blaine. And, yes, Blaine had cheated on him and Kurt had every right to be angry, but he should have reached out more, even if it was only through Finn or Tina, and made sure Blaine was actually ok. He shouldn't have interpreted the radio silence as hurtful apathy. After all, Kurt hadn't been the only one to lose his other half that night.

Looking back over those fateful few weeks beforehand, though, it's suddenly very clear that they hadn't been healthy for a while. In fact, it had felt like Kurt had been the only one in the relationship long before Blaine broke it. And he thinks maybe that was his own fault; he was so wrapped up in his own bubble of _growingupnewyorkvoguebusyexciting _that he'd forgotten Blaine had his own different and decidedly smaller bubble around him. Even when they had talked on the phone for an hour straight, they'd simply been talking _at _each other. Well, admittedly Kurt had done most of the talking, but still, the point remained that they hadn't been healthy and neither of them had done anything to rectify that. Blaine might have smashed their relationship to pieces, but it was already so badly cracked that he hadn't needed to hit it very hard.

He's also realised that Blaine's condition isn't entirely to do with him; he has (somewhat self-centredly) been under the assumption that Blaine broke down entirely because of their break-up. But whilst break-ups make people feel sad, they most certainly shouldn't prompt people to kill themselves, right? Surely there has to be more to it than that and, now that Kurt thinks about it, no one else from McKinley visited Blaine in the hospital (not to his knowledge at any rate). But, again, he doesn't know anything for sure.

And that's the other thing; he has to stop pretending he knows what Blaine is thinking and feeling, because he doesn't—how can he? He wants to, desperately, but he has to wait for Blaine to tell him in his own time and in his own way. He has to be patient and he has to be there for Blaine without asking for anything in return. He can't ask for Blaine's love, or his friendship, and he definitely can't ask him to get better. Because it's not that simple and he knows that now. But he's hopeful this morning because Blaine is coming round and they can do whatever Blaine wants to, or needs to, and for once he's not going to make this day about himself.

He dresses a bit more comfortably than usual, no distracting zips or brooches, and puts a bit less product in his hair. He wanders down to the kitchen and finds his dad hunched over the stove and he clears his throat loudly.

"Morning, Kurt!" His dad says over his shoulder and then turns round properly at the look on Kurt's face. "What?" He asks defensively, palms held out.

"Bacon, dad? Really?"

"I just thought Blaine might like some actual food—and don't give me that look, granola does not come under that category."

Kurt wants to argue, he really does. After all, the doctors clearly said that his dad needed to watch his diet and fried breakfasts in no way constitute heart-healthy food. But then again, Blaine does love bacon. Sighing, he helps himself to his own bowl of granola (hey, he doesn't have to sink to their level!) and sits down at the table. His dad joins him a moment later, plateful of bacon and eggs in hand.

"So what're you kids gonna get up to then?" The question catches Kurt off guard; it's takes him right back to those first few months of dating when his dad had been in over-protective father mode, wanting to know what Kurt and Blaine were doing 24-7.

"Just…stuff," Kurt shrugs, unsure how to answer now he's not attempting to lie about make-out sessions. "Whatever he wants to do, I guess."

"Well, make sure you don't push him, Kurt. Just keep things light, ok?" Burt holds his gaze across the table and it's then that Kurt realises the over-protective father act isn't for his benefit this time; it's for Blaine's.

"Dad, I know,"

"I know you do." Burt goes back to his food, piling eggs on his fork. "I raised a good kid—apart from his granola obsession, but I've learnt to live with that."

Kurt snorts. "Dad, come on, it's not _that _bad."

The doorbell rings then and Kurt abandons his cereal to go and open the door. Blaine is stood on the front porch in jeans and a hoodie, arms folded awkwardly over his chest. It's funny because recently his face looks so much older, but the lack of bowties and suspenders paradoxically makes him look younger. Kurt wouldn't have expected that in a million years.

Blaine still hasn't gelled his hair either and it reminds Kurt of those rare times when they were home alone all night and he had spent hours persuading Blaine to wash the gel out because he loved the feel of the looser curls in his fingers. Blaine never believed him; Kurt had only succeeded once. And suddenly, he's giggling because _Blaine is voluntarily gel free. _

"What?" Blaine asks, his arms tightening around his torso and Kurt doesn't mean to make him feel self-conscious, he really doesn't, but it's just so _funny._

"I'm—I'm not laughing at you—it's just—" He breaks off as another laugh takes a hold of him. "Sorry, it's just your hair—it's gel free."

"Oh," Blaine says, his forehead creasing as he tries to work out what's so funny. "I've stopped bothering."

"Mm, well, I like it like this." Kurt composes himself and reaches out to lightly ruffle Blaine's hair, not enough to actually mess it up, just touching it really. He sees Blaine's eyes momentarily widen in surprise before the blank mask returns. It feels a lot like victory.

Kurt leads Blaine through into the kitchen, forcefully not noticing when Blaine doesn't remove his coat or shoes like he usually would. His dad darts away from the stove, clearly having been sneaking back for seconds.

"I saw that!" Kurt says, pointing an accusing finger in his dad's direction.

"Aw come on, it's a Saturday. Blaine, back me up here: bacon's better than his granola crap, right?"

Blaine merely shrugs in reply, his lack of response reverberating round the kitchen and hitting Kurt in the face. He works to school his expression (he's meant to be understanding today, damn it), but his dad doesn't even flinch.

"Right, that's it, this calls for a taste test." Kurt watches as he moves back to the stove, this time piling the fried food on a new plate, and then grabs Kurt's cereal off the shelf, pouring a small amount into a bowl and messily splashing milk onto it. He places both dishes down on the table and holds a spoon and fork out to Blaine.

"Go on, try a bit of each and tell me which is better," When Blaine doesn't move, eyeing the fork like a rabbit facing oncoming traffic, Burt simply puts them down next to the food and then eases himself into the chair opposite. After a second, Kurt follows suit, sitting down next to the place set for Blaine. The place he always sits in whenever he comes for dinner.

Blaine stares at the wall for a moment and then sighs heavily, sagging into the seat and picking up the cutlery. He scoops up a forkful and then tips half the contents off again so that the final portion of bacon and eggs he puts into his mouth is minuscule. He chews slowly, gaze firmly fixed on the tablecloth and it takes him far too long to swallow (this is Blaine who, whether Kurt liked it or not, normally had a habit of shovelling food into his mouth Finn-style, especially something as greasy and disgusting as bacon). Kurt wonders whether his throat is still sore from the large amount of pills he swallowed and the resulting air tube that saved his life. This thought gives him the overwhelming urge to reach out and run his fingers along the expanse of Blaine's neck, from under his chin down to his collarbone, stroking the skin he knows will be slightly scratchy at the top and so, so smooth further down. He has to physically sit on his hands to stop them performing the soothing gesture.

Once Blaine has finally finished with the mouthful of eggs, he moves on to the cereal, carefully laying the fork at the side of the plate before picking up the spoon instead and excavating a little heap of granola to balance on it.

"Nuh-uh," Kurt says, gesturing to the spoonful. "You have to get milk with it or it isn't fair."

Blaine's eyes twitch upwards slightly and Kurt thinks he might have been suppressing an eye roll, but he does dip the spoon back down and allow a bit of milk to seep onto the metal.

He chews a little quicker this time and Kurt's dad sits back in his chair, a victorious grin on his face even though Blaine hasn't yet spoken.

"So, Blaine, which one tastes better?" His dad asks, shooting Kurt a smirk.

Blaine is quiet for a long time, his gaze flicking between the two dishes, and in any other circumstances, Kurt would've found it funny how seriously he was taking the decision.

"The eggs." When he finally speaks, it's in a quiet, measured voice and he looks up at each of them in turn, briefly catching their gazes before dropping his eyes back to the table and tracing the flowery pattern of the tablecloth with his index finger.

"Ugh, I should've known you'd take his side!" Kurt says playfully, mock-glaring at his dad. "Don't blame me when you're all dying from heart attacks before you're even sixty."

"I wish."

Kurt had meant it as a joke, hadn't really thought through the implications of his words, but Blaine's answer makes the smile drop right off his face.

"Nah, trust me, you don't," Burt replies before the silence can get awkward and Kurt is eternally grateful for that. "Did you try the hospital food? No one would willingly expose themselves to that crap—not for any length of time anyway."

Blaine shrugs, twisting his bottom lip into his mouth and continues to trail his fingers over the yellow arches of the flowers.

"Well, I'm just gonna pop to the garage for a couple of hours; Max said the delivery had arrived. Give me a ring if you need anything." This last part is clearly directed at Kurt and for some reason panic starts to rise inside of him, unbidden, as his dad gets up and squeezes his shoulder before noisily leaving the room.

His stomach flips as he looks at Blaine, so small where he's wrapped inside his hoodie, and he wonders how he's meant to hold a conversation with someone so unresponsive. Except it's more than that, because it's not Blaine's quietness that makes Kurt's stomach squirm. No, it's the way he won't look at Kurt unless it's unavoidable because, in all the time he's known Blaine, even when they were just friends, Blaine has always _looked_ at Kurt. In fact, sometimes in those first few weeks, it had felt like Blaine was the only one in the world who looked at him, the only one to actually see him. But as Blaine runs a hand distractedly over his forehead, pushing stray hair out of the way, Kurt realises that maybe it's his turn to do the looking. Perhaps Blaine isn't after someone to talk to after all; perhaps he just wants someone to _see_ him.


	9. Chapter 9

Blaine eats another couple of mouthfuls at Kurt's insistence, mainly just to shut him up as he lists the endless benefits of granola, and then follows him into the living room. He sits as instructed on the couch as Kurt wonders over to the DVD cabinet to select a movie to watch. He pointedly doesn't dwell on the fact that Kurt always asks him what he wants to do, or at the very least asks for Blaine's opinion on his own suggestion (almost as if he's desperate for Blaine's approval—like Blaine will think him boring if he doesn't agree with Kurt's ideas), and yet this morning he gave Blaine absolutely no choice in the matter. It's both a relief, because he very rarely has opinions on anything anymore, and slightly insulting because, hello, he's not a helpless invalid.

Kurt selects _You've Got Mail_ even though they've both seen it at least ten times, half of those together, and after sliding it into the DVD player, he sits down next to Blaine on the couch, somewhere between Blaine and the other end. In fact, his positioning is suspiciously equidistant, as if he didn't want to make Blaine (or himself) uncomfortable by sitting too close, but equally didn't want Blaine to think that was what he was doing so avoided sitting up against the arm. It annoys Blaine in a way he can't comprehend; Kurt is only being nice, he's only trying to make Blaine as comfortable as possible, but their stiff postures and the even stiffer silence is suffocating. The movie has started and Kurt hasn't made a single sassy side-comment. Maybe with anyone else it wouldn't have been a big deal, but since Blaine is kind of an expert at watching movies with Kurt Hummel, he knows the strangeness of this reserved behaviour. And ten minutes into the film it's really starting to frustrate him.

Because it is frustrating. He wants to know what Kurt's thinking, wants to push against the silence like a tongue against a mouth ulcer, because even if the result is pain, at least he'll know something's _there_. But maybe there's nothing there. Maybe it's just white light and static and Blaine is making it all up in his head. Wouldn't be the first time.

Blaine sits there in silent agony for another ten minutes before Kurt seems to twig that Blaine's practically vibrating with uncomfortableness and turns to look at him for the first time. At least one of them has been watching the film.

"Are you cold?" Kurt asks and, really, could he have asked a more stupid question?

"No." Blaine replies, refusing to tear his eyes from the TV screen even though he can't focus on the scenes flitting across it.

"Sure? 'Cause I can get the blanket from off my bed—that big fluffy one that you like."

"No." Blaine repeats, and then adds a terse, "Thank you." as an afterthought.

Kurt hums in acknowledgement and returns his attention to the film. Blaine exhales in relief and then internally curses when the noise only succeeds in attracting Kurt's eyes again.

"Pretty exciting about Cooper, huh?" Kurt says, his face suddenly full of enthusiasm.

"What?" Blaine is genuinely confused by this; as far as he's aware Kurt and Cooper haven't spoken since he came to visit last year.

"Y'know, the part he got in that horror film, the one that's coming out next year. It's going to be a huge box office success apparently—I know he's only got a supporting role, but still, he'll get to go to an actual premiere and meet all these—"

"How do you know that?" Blaine is slightly freaked out by how much Kurt knows.

"Oh, he told me when I spoke to him the other day. You know Cooper, any excuse to big himself up."

"You spoke to him?"

"Yeah, when you were—a few days ago. He wanted to know how you were doing and couldn't get hold of your parents so he rang Mr Schue to get _my _number."

"Great." Blaine glares at the wall, no longer even bothering to pay attention to the film.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kurt sounds surprised at Blaine's reaction which does nothing for his mounting annoyance.

"No, that's fine, you guys carry on having nice little discussions about me behind my back…"

"Blaine, no, that's not what we were doing. We just—we both care about you, that's all, and like I said, he pretty much talked about himself the entire time anyway so it's really no big deal."

Blaine raises his eyebrows sarcastically and refuses to meet Kurt's eyes even though Kurt keeps ducking his head slightly as if he wants to do just that.

"So, what do you reckon? Is Meg Ryan even more fabulous the tenth time round?" Kurt obviously feels that a change in topic is needed.

Blaine merely shrugs, wishing Kurt would just continue watching the stupid film.

"I think I love it just as much as the first time I saw it, in fact more so because I don't have to put up with my dad falling asleep half way through. It's just such a classic story, isn't it? I'm the first to say there have been a lot of good romcoms over the years, but this has that extra sparkle, y'know?"

Blaine doesn't know why he finds Kurt's incessant babbling so irritating when literally five minutes ago he was wishing for something to break the awkward silence between them. He just knows he can't listen to it for a second longer.

"Kurt, just stop, ok?" He gets out from between his clenched teeth, his tone more confrontational than he'd meant it. Kurt freezes.

"Sorry, I was only trying to take your mind off things a bit." He wraps his arms around his knees where they're tucked up on the couch, a universal gesture of protection. _He's protecting himself from me_, Blaine thinks.

"Yeah, great, because a movie and small talk is just what the doctor ordered to make me normal again!" It's like he has no control over his own mouth, like his subconscious wants him to push Kurt as far away as possible.

"You are normal." It's said with such fierce intensity, like Kurt really believes it, and that makes Blaine's insides twist unpleasantly. He snorts and looks away, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his hoody.

"You're just—you're just going through some stuff and that's fine," Kurt continues and _he really needs to stop_. "You're human and it's perfectly normal to not be ok sometimes."

"Kurt, I wanted to _die_—I'm pretty sure I still do—that's not normal. About ninety-nine percent of my thoughts right now are nowhere near _normal_. " The words spit out of him as his fingers twitch around the lengthening thread.

"Maybe the _situation _isn't normal, but that doesn't make you some aberrant monster!"

Kurt jumps as Blaine slams his fist down on the sofa, the action surprising him nearly as much as it does Kurt. Blaine closes his eyes, wishes he was back in his room. Alone.

"Look, Blaine, I realise I can't understand what you're going through at the moment and I know that everything that comes out of my mouth just makes things worse." _So why won't you shut up?_ Blaine thinks as Kurt edges closer before continuing, "But I can _see_ you, ok? I've always been able to see you and no matter what happens or how you feel, I always will. Not what you're going through or what you want from me, or—or what you want from yourself, but I can see _you_. And I need you to always remember that."

Blaine looks at Kurt's face now, so open and honest and full of something that Blaine cannot bring himself to categorise. He watches the tear clinging to his eyelashes, struggling uselessly against gravity before zigzagging down after the others that have already slipped out, and realises for the first time that just because he's the only balloon falling, it doesn't mean that he's the only one with air leaking out. Kurt closes his eyes briefly and exhales, resting his arm along the top of the couch. When he opens them again, he no longer looks like he's about to burst into sobs, the iridescent vulnerability in his eyes replaced with all-consuming intensity. Blaine's stomach flips at the flames suddenly erupting out of Kurt, just like the other day, and licking around the edge of the couch. They only grow brighter as Kurt starts to talk again.

"You know, a few years ago I used to lie in bed and wonder what was wrong with me. I used to wonder why I didn't fit in anywhere, not even in my own _home_, why I was destined to remain alone when everyone around me got to have someone. I used to wonder when I could stop waking up early to do laundry and hide my daily slushy facials from my dad. I used to wonder whether I'd ever be able to walk around in public without being afraid, whether I'd ever be allowed to be different and proud—to be happy. I used to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder what the point was, y'know? Why I kept bothering to go through the motions when there was nothing in it for me. And sometimes, when it had been a really bad day, when my bedroom seemed especially dark, sometimes I'd wonder about ending it all then and there. About the best ways to go about that, about how it would affect my dad, about what it would _mean_. The idea of it seemed so extreme but at the same time so simple, so comforting. It was like being wrapped in a blanket but not knowing whether you're too hot or too cold…"

Blaine looks up again as Kurt pauses, his beautiful voice steady but too breathy to be completely composed, as if there's too much life tumbling out of him at once. Blaine's own chest is constricting as the flames rise up, insatiable, because Kurt shouldn't be saying these things, he shouldn't know what they feel like. And yet he does.

A sudden memory flashes through Blaine's head; a memory of another balloon floating past him two years earlier, covered in expensive fabric to hide the gashes in its slowly-shrivelling skin, contracting inwards just enough that the well-drawn on smile delicately falters.

"And do you know what happened, Blaine? Do you know what pulled that blanket off of me?"

The fire is rapidly spreading, each undulating flame tackling a piece of Blaine's numbness. It's glorious, but at the same time Blaine can feel wetness rising to the backs of his eyes and throat and he's acutely aware that this moisture cannot come out; water destroys fire and Blaine _needs_ this—he needs to feel. It's the sweetest torture having his emotions suspended like this; the euphoria of everything unfreezing, roaring into life in one continuous picture show, concurrent with the agony of keeping it from overflowing, repressing it just enough so as not to shatter the illusion. He shakes his head, unsure whether he's answering Kurt's question or silently pleading with him not to go on.

"One Tuesday afternoon, I happened to wonder into some fancy private school where a certain handsome, dapper stranger in a blazer showed me that life has so much more to offer—_so much more_—if you just have the courage to let it."

Blaine should know this story—and logically he does—but he's only ever known it from his own perspective, he's never seen it through Kurt's eyes. As the dam inside of him breaks, water cascading throughout in one great tsunami, tears gashing their way down his cheeks, he realises that Kurt used to be a balloon too. Used to. Before Blaine and his stupid fake confidence freed him from it. And now Kurt is drifting among the skyscrapers, in control of his own direction without being tied down. He no longer needs a mangy bit of air-filled rubber to fly. He no longer needs a knight in shining armour to keep him afloat.

Kurt doesn't say anything else, he just pulls Blaine against his chest, one arm settling securely around Blaine's back, the way it has always done, the other stroking up and down his thigh reassuringly. _Maybe_, Blaine thinks in between sobs, _maybe it isn't hopeless, maybe he's not a lost cause. _Because as small and useless as his life seems right now, it doesn't necessarily have to stay like that. Kurt escaped from underneath the dark folds of the blanket, so why can't he?


	10. Chapter 10

His tears have extinguished the fire, just like he knew they would, but Blaine still doesn't feel numb. No, he doesn't feel _right_, nowhere near in fact, but he doesn't feel numb either and he allows himself to revel in that for several long, glorious minutes. He listens to his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, slowly synching with Kurt's underneath his head, and for the first time in months, he feels grateful for it. It's a newly-appreciated reassurance that he is _here_, that he is a real, palpable living thing.

He cries and cries until his eyes are aching, his nose is running all the way down his chin and the only thing he can taste is salt. He lets Kurt's whispered nothings sink through his hair into his scalp, caressing him from the inside out. Each time his breathing grows too fast, the air puffing out of him too quickly as the sobs constrict his chest, he concentrates on the press of Kurt's nose against his cheek, allows it to comfort him until the hyperventilating stops again.

A million thoughts are flicking through his head, but they're moving too fast for his brain to catch them. As soon as he grasps onto one of them, starts to process something that he hasn't thought about in months, it slides away into the jumbled mess of feelings spinning around inside of him. He doesn't know how to start puzzling any of it out so he simply allows his mind to do as it pleases, giving it freedom to think what it wants for a change without being carefully controlled.

He's definitely stopped crying now, his cheeks stiff with the drying moisture, but Kurt makes no move to pull away, obviously waiting for Blaine to decide on his own. But Blaine is terrified that if he moves so much as an inch from the enclosure of _safewarmcomfortfeeling _that is Kurt's arms, he'll give himself up to the numbness again. Eventually, it's his bladder that forces him to shuffle sideways, Kurt's arms falling onto his own lap once more. It's such a basic biological need, but it makes Blaine feel laughably human in a way he hasn't for a while.

"I need to pee," He says in explanation, and Kurt snorts, his worried gaze relaxing beautifully as he glances back to the forgotten television screen. "What? I do." Blaine defends himself, but he feels an outline of a smile glance off his face.

He follows Kurt's eyes and realises with a start that the credits of _You've Got Mail _are playing. "We forgot the movie." Blaine states dumbly.

"Hmm, I wonder what happens…" Kurt raises his eyebrows at Blaine, teasing, "It's not like we've seen it so many times we can recite the dialogue in our sleep."

"Exactly! I'm going to have to watch it at least twice more now to pick up on all the bits I missed." Blaine quips back, and Kurt grins at him in such a way that Blaine doesn't even listen to the voice inside his head, the one telling him how disproportionately happy Kurt is over a bit of joking around.

"I thought you needed to pee…" Kurt says after a moment and Blaine sighs.

"Mmm I'm getting to it, but my feet are still waking up." He flexes his toes for extra effect.

"Well, don't wait too long; dad'll kill me if you make a mess on the couch." It's a mindless joke, but both of them freeze as certain memories resurface. Frantic, clumsy kisses; teeth scraping sensitive lips as shirts are tugged off; whispers of 'hurry' and 'I love you so much' and 'unf…feels good'; snatches of common sense drowned out by feelings of passion, Kurt's half-hearted reminders that they _really shouldn't be…mmm….doing this here_ and _if my dad realises we—nhh Blaine—on his couch_, and his own murmured replies that Kurt should _take care not to get too messy then_, before all semblance of rational thought left him and he couldn't comprehend anything beyond _Kurt, Kurt, Kurt_.

Suddenly, Blaine is very capable of jumping up and heading to the bathroom, a muttered "Be back in a minute, then" thrown carelessly over his shoulder. He doesn't dare look at Kurt's face.

When he returns, Kurt is idly flicking through some football magazine and if that phenomenon alone isn't enough to expose his forced effort at normalcy, his stiff posture and unfocused gaze certainly would be. He looks up nonchalantly when he hears Blaine come in, and offers him a smile, but this time it doesn't show his teeth, nor quite reach his eyes.

"So," Kurt says as he perches on the edge of the couch. "What would you like to do?"

Well, at least Kurt had asked his opinion this time, although suddenly Blaine doesn't feel much like doing anything besides going home.

"Um, I sort of thought I'd head off actually—"

"—Let's go for a drive." Kurt says it so quickly and firmly, as if it's an instinctive reaction to cut Blaine off.

"I—what?" Blaine is slightly confused as to why that would be beneficial to either of them in the slightest. He'd tried long evening drives those first few nights after he had destroyed everything and quickly found out that empty roads and fading lights only made him impossibly lonelier.

"Let's just—oh I don't know, let's go to the Lima Bean."

"The…Lima Bean?" Blaine repeats stupidly, unsure what Kurt is aiming for here. Is he trying to be polite, make it seem like he doesn't want Blaine out the door as soon as possible?

"Yes, it's that coffee place on the edge of town. Haven't you heard of it?" Kurt's attempting to joke again, but there's an uncomfortable weight in the room now and the light is shining off Kurt's fake attempt at joviality, revealing the desperation beneath. The words fall flat.

"You want to get coffee?" Blaine asks, wishing Kurt would give it up already because he hates this awkwardness so, so much.

But Kurt just nods and then catches Blaine's sleeve and half pulls him out into the hall, handing him his shoes and rummaging on the shoe rack to find a suitable pair of his own. He picks up two and briefly considers them before settling on a pair of boots; Blaine wonders if the others hadn't quite set off his outfit and that's why they were rejected. More than likely, he thinks.

He slips into his own shoes and stands there awkwardly as Kurt finds himself a coat in the hall closet. For some reason, his hoodie feels too small all of a sudden, and no matter how much he snuggles into it, tugging his chin into the neckline and his hands into the sleeves, he isn't covered _enough_. He sort of hopes that Kurt will change his mind and they can go back into the sitting room and watch another movie, and then Blaine will cause another argument and Kurt will yell at him and kick him out—

"Do you want to drive or shall I?" Blaine blinks at Kurt who's back in front of him, dangling his car keys from pale fingers.

"I can't. I mean with the—the medication I'm on, I'm not allowed to drive." Blaine doesn't know why he's blushing; it's not like it's a shameful admission per se, yet somehow it feels like it.

"Oh." Kurt says and he clenches his hand around the keys, hiding them from sight. "Right, okay then, I'll drive."

Blaine follows Kurt out of the door, watches as he locks it and pats his coat to make sure his phone is still in his pocket. It's such a familiar routine, but so foreign at the same time, as if Blaine has returned from a long trip and everything about his old life is covered in a thin but visible layer of dust.

Kurt's car smells just like it used to as well. Blaine supposes it's only been sat in the Hummel's driveway for months, waiting for Kurt to come back from New York and its abundance of taxies. The only visible difference is the lack of CDs in the central console; presumably Kurt took those with him. Kurt follows his gaze as he starts the ignition and smiles slightly.

"You can turn the radio on if you want," Kurt offers, pulling off the driveway. They have to stop as a random kid clutching a football and his mother walk past, presumably headed to the park a few blocks away.

Blaine considers it, but as he settles back into the familiar seat and stares out the window, the streets no longer seem empty despite the lack of other traffic and the sky no longer looks angry. For once, Blaine needs no music to set the scene or distract him. For once, he is perfectly contented with the stillness. So he shakes his head at Kurt who smiles briefly and the beautifully comfortable silence lasts all the way to the Lima Bean parking lot.


	11. Chapter 11

Kurt holds the door open for Blaine as they enter the coffee shop. It's strange because Blaine was always the one to hold the door open; he was always the one who needed to be the perfect gentleman, to impress Kurt in any and every way possible. It all seems incredibly pointless now.

The café isn't particularly full, not like it used to be when they came here after school to chat about nothing in particular, enjoying each other's newfound company until Kurt's dad called to ask where he was and whether he was planning on coming home anytime soon.

There's only one other person in front of them in the line so they reach the counter much quicker than usual and it throws them both off for a moment. The woman behind the counter doesn't look very impressed at their stupefied expressions, brushing her hands down her apron impatiently.

Kurt is the first to recover.

"I'll get a grande non-fat mocha and he'll have a medium drip, please. Oh, and could we get one of those oatmeal cookies? Thanks."

Blaine blinks. "You know my coffee order."

Kurt's face lights up as he pays the woman and moves to the collection point. Blaine's too hung up on how _Kurt remembered_ to even notice that for the first time ever he didn't even pay for half of their order. It's not until they're handed cups of steaming hot coffee and a bagged cookie that Blaine realises he doesn't have any cash on him. He feels embarrassed again as he tries to explain this to Kurt.

"Oh…I, um, I didn't pay, and I think I forgot to bring my—"

"It's on me, dummy." Blaine's head whips up in time to catch Kurt's smile at the opposite wall. Blaine doesn't know whether to feel pleased or uncomfortable, but he allows the former to win for the moment, and the wall receives two grins as they make their way to their usual spot by the window. Well, what used to be their usual spot anyway.

Kurt sets about splitting the cookie, thumb carefully pushing the middle inwards so that a line falls almost exactly down the centre. It's almost perfect, but the jagged edges ruin it; Blaine's pulse picks up slightly in annoyance. Stupid cookie.

"Huh?"

It's not until Kurt gives him a weird look from across the table that he realises he said that last comment out loud.

"Oh, um, it's just—it's not quite even…" He gestures half-heartedly at the cookie.

Kurt snorts. "Well you can have the bigger half."

"No." Blaine retorts too quickly. "No, I'd rather have the smaller bit."

Kurt shrugs and slides the bag over to him so he can pick one. Suddenly Blaine can't work out which one is smaller; Kurt _has _split it perfectly after all. He closes his eyes and reaches blindly, picking up the first half he touches. Kurt chuckles as it breaks and falls into smaller pieces on the bag.

"So," Kurt says, picking up his own bit of cookie more successfully and dunking it in his coffee. "Did you see the travesty that was the barista's hair?"

The conversation starts up like Kurt never left and Blaine never broke them and it's—surprisingly entertaining. It's nice to chatter aimlessly and laugh at things without analysing _why _he's laughing. Kurt makes him laugh so he laughs. It's as simple as that.

Until Kurt stops laughing, looking over Blaine's shoulder at something as his expression shifts. When he loudly calls out, "Sam, hi!", Blaine's heart sinks.

Sam's blonde head appears at their table and Blaine definitely doesn't fancy the last mouthful of his cookie now. Nevertheless, he keeps his eyes carefully trained on the raisin poking out, eyes tracing the tiny wrinkles where they disappear beneath the surface of the chunk.

"Uh, hey guys," Sam sounds distinctly awkward and alarm bells are going off in Blaine's head because he can see Kurt's eyes narrowing out of the corner of his vision and that's never a good sign. "What're you up to?"

"Having coffee." Kurt replies brusquely, gesturing to their cups.

"Er, right. Cool." Sam is shifting his weight from foot to foot but the timing is uneven. "Well, I'll leave you guys to it—"

"Aren't you going to ask how Blaine is?" Kurt's voice sounds like it's roughly pH 2.

"Kurt, it's—"

"It's not fine that _your friend_ here didn't show up to see you once in the hospital." Kurt stands up, chair scraping backwards and Blaine's chest constricts in panic.

"Dude, chill!" Sam looks slightly terrified now that the Kurt Hummel bitch glare is trained on him in full.

"So what, you decided you didn't want to associate yourself with him now that he needs a shoulder to lean on? Decided he wasn't worth a half-hour visit? What kind of friend is that, huh?"

Voices inside Blaine's head are screaming so loudly it's practically white noise, but Kurt apparently doesn't notice.

"And the rest of them are just as pathetic! Glee Club is meant to be a support network, but apparently you just abandon each other now—even when someone almost _dies_—"

"Dude, he's not even in Glee anymore!" Sam defends himself, eyes flickering between Kurt and Blaine as if the latter has betrayed him; knowing Blaine, he probably has somehow.

"What?" This information stops Kurt short and Blaine finds himself being stared at by two pairs of eyes. Suddenly, it's all too much and he wishes he had never agreed to come out in the first place. It was such a stupid idea and he'd let himself be dragged into it and now everything around him is cracking again. Or maybe he's breaking and that's why his vision is blurring. Either way his feet are pushing him up and stumbling towards the door before his brain tells them to. He pushes past a couple entering the coffee shop, forcing apart their intertwined hands in the process, and runs out into the cool air, chest heaving as he gasps for air.


	12. Chapter 12

Kurt doesn't follow him and at first he is oddly annoyed by this. He feels like a child sent to his room, knowing full well that his parents are downstairs talking about his behaviour. _You should've just stayed,_ a voice in his head whispers, y_ou should've stayed and explained calmly and maturely that you were no longer an asset to the team—that it would've hurt their chances further had you remained involved. _

But then, that wasn't really why he left, was it? He wasn't anywhere near that selfless. Yes, he'd stopped contributing to group discussions, and he could no longer hit the notes needed to harmonise with Marley, or do the choreography fast enough. But that wasn't why he left. He'd quit Glee Club purely because he was weak; he couldn't stand the constant stares and whispers of his teammates, couldn't stand the way he was always fighting back tears by the end of a meeting for no real reason, the way no one wanted to be his duet partner anymore, the pointed pauses and nudges whenever Kurt's name happened to come up.

He'd skipped one afternoon and no one had missed him so then he stopped going completely.

Some of them had still tried to talk to him occasionally, but their awkward, half-sympathetic, half-frustrated looks made him feel so tired. It was better to avoid them and turn himself invisible; no looks, no questions, no Blaine.

As he sits down on the tarmac in the parking lot, his eyes filling with half-formed tears, he decides he is glad he left the coffee shop after all. It's funny, a few weeks ago he was complaining about how people's sympathy looked so false and now he's upset because it's too genuine; because they're not _actually_ concerned for him. They're concerned about his vitality, about his body, but they're not concerned about _him_.

He stares down at the cracks in the ground, tiny little fissures that disappear under the wheel of the car next to him. The cliché is wanting to fall between the cracks, but Blaine doesn't want to fall anymore; he'd much rather just dissolve right here and float downwards forever and ever. He wishes that instead of being a whole balloon, he could be the particles that constitute it — then he wouldn't need air to keep him afloat. Then there'd be no such thing as rising and falling, only being. Blaine would like to just be.

The thing is, people never could let him be. They always had to question him, querying every little detail: _You have a brother? You like show choir? You're gay? You cheated? Why are _you _so upset?_ And somewhere along the line Blaine got sick of answering.

It's like everyone wants something from Blaine constantly and he's just so tired of pretending he can keep giving it to them, that his supply of bubbly enthusiasm is unlimited. Because it isn't. And whereas before he used to come home from school and recharge himself back up again during the evenings, the charger no longer works. No matter how withdrawn from others he becomes, no matter how many excuses he makes to avoid social situations and curl up in bed, no matter how much he keeps his head down, his batteries never seem to charge themselves up again. Yet he cannot for the life of him work out why; he doesn't know which part of the process is broken. Is the charger itself broken and, if so, which part of it? Or is it a faulty connection in the wires? Or could it be Blaine's brain that's come apart?

Maybe, thinks a small voice in his head, maybe he doesn't run on rechargeable batteries. Maybe he's one big disposable battery that stopped providing electricity a long time ago.

He hears footsteps and watches Kurt's boots come towards him—alone thankfully—the perfect heel to toe motion of his walk hypnotising. He's not sure whether he's zoning out or zoning in. Kurt sits down a careful distance away from him and crosses his legs; for some reason, the movement doesn't seem as graceful as usual. He follows the trail of one of the little cracks with his eyes until it disappears underneath Kurt's thigh. It's not until he's been staring at the material of the designer jeans for several long seconds that he realises it's probably inappropriate to stare now. Kurt's too polite to say anything about it though. Kurt's probably too polite, period.

"Ants are weird creatures, aren't they?" The question pops into his head and out of his mouth as he watches one scurry along the edge of the sidewalk.

"How come?" Kurt doesn't miss a beat before he answers, apparently not thrown by Blaine's strange question.

"Because they're tiny and get stepped on all the time, but they can actually carry things twenty-times their own body weight—like, they're really strong."

"Like you." Kurt says after a moment.

"No." Blaine shakes his head. "No, not like me."

"Like what, then?"

"Like…" He looks around at the parking lot, the rows of cars and empty spaces, the white lines marking out all the boundaries. "Like white lines in a parking lot."

"Blaine Anderson, you are by far the weirdest thinker on the planet!" Kurt laughs, eyes reflecting the fall sun.

"Sorry." Blaine apologises even though he thinks it was a compliment.

"That's okay." Kurt replies, and suddenly it feels like their whole exchange has a hidden weight to it, one Blaine failed to grasp.

"So…" Kurt continues. "…Sam?"

"Mm." Blaine hums non-committally, scared he'll misinterpret the meaning again.

"You quit Glee?"

"Yep." He picks up a tiny stone—more of a piece of grit—and rolls it along the ground next to him.

"Because the others stopped supporting you?"

"Not really." He likes the feel of the friction on his thumb as his stone bumps along.

"Because it wasn't the same anymore?"

"Yep."

"And you stopped sitting with them at lunch?"

"They didn't want me anymore." The stone gets stuck in a groove for a second, but Blaine dislodges it and carries on.

"Your parents weren't at home?"

"Business as usual." He's rolled it as far as his arm can stretch; now it's just sat there under his thumb. Kurt sighs.

"I should have picked up your calls—I'm sorry."

Blaine flicks the stone away from him and shrugs. "It's okay. I'm not your responsibility, Kurt."

"No, but you always say my name really nicely."

The statement throws Blaine off so much that he has to look up into Kurt's face. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"You just—you've always said my name really nicely and I couldn't be bothered to pick up."

"…Okay?" Blaine says slowly, hoping Kurt will actually explain. He doesn't. Instead, he stands up and brushes off his designer jeans. Blaine wonders whether the ant is still clinging to his thigh; Blaine doesn't blame him if he is.

"Come on, you, let's go home." Kurt's voice is a strange mixture of affectionate and sad which makes Blaine's chest reflect those feelings and he thinks about how a few hours before, it had all seemed so simple.

But then Kurt takes Blaine's hand and leads him back to the car and the fire reignites up his arm. _Teach me how to pull the blanket off,_ he thinks, _like you did._ _I want to breathe again, but I don't know how. Teach me how to say my name like I say yours. _


	13. Chapter 13

They go back to Kurt's and have some sandwiches before spending the afternoon alternating between browsing fashion blogs and making snarky comments about the contestants on _America's Next Top Model_. When it gets to four o'clock, Kurt suggests that they should stop being mean human beings and do something else.

"How about some Rummy?" He asks, and Blaine remembers when he taught him how to play the card game, an activity used to fill many an empty evening when Blaine had been boarding at Dalton. He feels instinctively excited at the prospect, a little shot of happy exhilaration sparking through him.

Kurt goes off to find the cards and Blaine stares around the room, eyes jumping between trinkets. _So familiar, yet so distant. _A flash of red catches his eye and he leans forward from his spot on the floor to pick up the little piece of paper where it's peeking out under the bedside table. It turns out to be a gift tag—a festive one probably, given the colour. He feels the cardboard between his fingers, then flips it over to its non-shiny side. To his surprise, there's unmistakable writing on the otherwise unblemished white rectangle. Why did Kurt keep a random tag he wrote? Blaine tells himself not to read it, his heart beating a little too fast in a different kind of anticipation, the card suddenly seeming heavier in his palm. Of course, he reads it anyway.

_Blaine,_

_Wishing you the __best__ of Christmases ever to exist —You really do mean the world to me!_

_I love you,_

_Kurt xxxx_

Blaine's pretty sure he can't breathe and his ears are ringing with the sound of absolutely nothing. He's empty; a balloon with no air.

He doesn't even hear Kurt come back into the room until he's stood right above him.

"Blaine?"

The voice sounds strange but all Blaine can think of is that word—his name—scrawled across the tag in his hand. Kurt apparently registers what Blaine is holding because he slowly bends down and takes it out of his grip; it doesn't require much force.

"I—I wrote this in September and then—I wrapped things way too early this year—And I didn't know— I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it." Kurt explains unnecessarily. Blaine is pretty sure his heart is pulsing at an unhealthy speed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise I left it lying around…Are you, um, okay?" Kurt sounds worried, and Blaine remembers vaguely that he's considered a hazard to himself at the moment, and that Kurt's worry is technically justified. But his rational thoughts are usurped by a sudden desire.

"Can I keep this?" He stares at the wall as he says it, disproportionately terrified that Kurt will say no.

"Yes, of course you can." Kurt pauses, flicks something invisible off his jeans. "It was for you."

Blaine doesn't know what to say as he takes the little piece of cardboard back, but he feels that Kurt's statement needs a response of some sort. A recognition, or an acknowledgment that _you're a good person and I don't deserve this, or you for that matter—and your handwriting is beautiful—I don't think I've ever told you that before, but I should have—it's so beautiful. _

He turns his face back to Kurt's, catching the shimmering eye, and wonders whether Kurt is about to cry or whether the lamp light is just illusive.

"I have to go back to New York tomorrow night."

The words come out of nowhere and hang in the oxygen particles between them, sucking Blaine's breath from his chest.

He nods and drops Kurt's gaze again, the fire starting to burn unpleasantly.

"I'm sorry—I swear I tried to get more time off, but Madam Tibideaux is adamant I don't miss any more classes and I think it would be best."

Blaine nods again, insides slowly blistering. "I understand."

"No, you don't."

"Your education is important; you worked hard to get into NYADA and you shouldn't just throw that a way."

"Told you that you didn't understand," Kurt smiles and sits down on the floor beside Blaine, their knees brushing. "You think that I'm going back because otherwise I'll be kicked out of school; because I have a whole life waiting for me in New York that I've already abandoned for too long; because graduating and pursuing my Broadway dreams are incredibly important to me; because my future plans are much _more_ important to me than you are."

Blaine shrugs. "You care about me, I know that—that's why you came back in the first place. But you can't afford to screw up your life over some messed-up high school ex who you can't even trust anymore."

Kurt doesn't attempt to interrupt him or make any physical gestures of negation, he merely listens to Blaine incredibly carefully, in a way that no one else seems to do anymore.

"No, you don't get it at all." Kurt says, reaching out and turning the tag over in Blaine's hand so that the writing is once again facing upwards. "If it were about school or Broadway or New York, I would never, ever get on that flight—never. You have to believe me when I say this: I would choose you over any one of those things, or all of them. I don't just care about you and I most certainly didn't come back out of pity or guilt or whatever else you've convinced yourself it was; I came back to Lima because when my dad told me what you'd done to yourself, I knew I had to be at your side as fast as humanly possible. You might have been the one in the hospital bed, but we both nearly died that night. Imagining my life without performing is horrible, but a life without you in it in some capacity? I can't imagine that. _I physically can't_. You aren't just someone I care about, you're someone who is inextricably connected to me."

Blaine watches Kurt's finger trace over his own name and the subsequent row of 'X's.

"So why are you going back then?" He asks, feeling ridiculously immature. "…I still need you…"

Kurt's face falls and he looks much older than Blaine again—like he's gone away for a year and come back an adult whilst Blaine remains a perpetual child.

"I know you do, but that's why I have to give you some space, just for a little while."

"But _why_?" Has Blaine lost his intelligence as well as his mind? How come nothing is making the slightest bit of sense?

"Because we are _so _connected."

Blaine suspects that eighty-percent of Kurt's message is being communicated through his eyes, but he finds those just as intensely cryptic as his words. Suddenly, there's a weird whining noise and it startles him before he realises that _he_ was the one to make it, that the pathetic sound came from the back of _his_ throat.

He feels the heat rising to his cheeks and draws his knees up, pressing his too hot face against them. His vision goes dark even though he still has his eyes wide open, tiny crevices of light visible where his legs meet.

"Blaine…?" He feels a gentle pressure on the back of his head, but he resists it, burrowing further and wrapping his arms tightly around his shins.

Kurt doesn't say anything else, but the soft scritching at his hairline continues and he tries to focus on that.

After far too short a time, the hand retracts and he hears Kurt reshuffle himself next to him, moving just a tiny bit closer.

"When I left for New York, I had to make a lot of changes. I had to learn how to be a tiny fish in a huge pond; how to posé turn in 6/8 time; how to live away from home and deal with homesickness. Hell, I had to learn how to cook for a vegan— thank you very much for that one, Rachel!" Blaine smiles into his knees at that. "Point is, the hardest part in all of it was becoming a person who could live in a different state from you. But I managed it; I made the change. And I don't feel any differently about you as a result—I'm still just as connected to you—but I now know how to stretch the wire when necessary. I need you, but I'm not dependent. You haven't had that chance yet; you never got the memo that I was changing and our relationship had to readjust, and that's my fault."

Blaine turns his head so that his cheek is now resting on his knees and he can see Kurt.

"So you're saying I need some time on my own to learn how to be a fully functioning individual. That for some reason, being around you makes me even more needy and clingy than I naturally am?" Blaine surmises and Kurt winces at the harsh tone, even though it isn't directed at him.

"For a start, you're not going to be on your own, I'm just not going to be right _here_. And you're not clingy—you just like to show you care."

Blaine bites his lip, tilting his face back into his leg slightly.

"No, I mean it!" Kurt assures. "And I think that you would get better quicker if I was here, unequivocally showing you that _I _care, in fact I'm certain of it. But then what's to stop it happening again? And again after that? I can't be your linchpin, in the same way that you couldn't keep being mine. I'm not going to sit here and tell you that you're feeling the way you are entirely because of me and our relationship—not even I'm that arrogant—but you must see that if I put you back together now, you're always going to need me to keep you together. You need to do this for yourself and worry about _us_ afterwards. I might be in New York, but I'm not going anywhere, ok? I'm just giving you time to heal so that you can be your amazing self again. You've done it before after the Sadie Hawkins debacle and you can do it this time, too; I promise."

"Oh." Blaine says, because he never thought of it like that.

"Good 'oh' or bad 'oh'?" Kurt asks.

"I'm not sure, but I think I understand what you mean now." Blaine slowly uncurls himself and slides the tag into his pocket, out of side but not out of mind. Never out of mind.

Kurt smiles and reaches over to take Blaine's hand in one of his own. He interlocks their fingers and squeezes once before resting their joined hands on his thigh. "So how about that game of Rummy?"

Kurt goes back to New York the next day. For the first time in weeks, Blaine gels his hair.


	14. Chapter 14

The happy feeling lasts for exactly one and a half days before he finds himself curled up on the bedroom floor, tears invading his eyes for no particular reason. He'd gone back to school at his parents' insistence; apparently they'd been told that the sooner he got back into a normal routine the better. Naturally, it was dreadful in an un-disastrous sort of way.

Nothing extreme had happened—in fact it was strangely like he hadn't been away at all—but the New Directions were too attentive, asking him too many mundane questions about French homework and dance routines he hadn't done in months. Tina miraculously appeared outside his math class just before lunch and forced him to join their group table in the cafeteria, though Blaine tried to protest that he'd brought his own food to eat in a quiet classroom. Sam invited him to a 'Bro Night' the following week and Marley asked whether he wanted to see some new period drama at the cinema. No, they weren't unpleasant by any means, and their concern was genuine, but they were trying _too_ hard to include him; underneath their smiles and blasé laughter, they still looked scared of him.

And then there were the comments from the football team, random lettermen-clad boys shouting at him over their shoulders, occasionally shoving him into the lockers. _Hey, nutcase, why you still here? Aren't you meant to be in an asylum now? Are you a freaking emo or something? Could you not take being the school slut anymore? Stay the fuck away from us, freak!_ _Oi, faggot, do us all a favour and finish the job next time! _

He was used to this sort of thing, even if the exact slurs were new inventions, yet for some reason it made him want to hit _himself_, as opposed to _them_ like it usually did. And he supposed in some ways it was an improvement; the faggot comment was unfair and bigoted, but technically he was both a slut and a nutcase.

He wasn't exactly sure why he'd broken down when he got home, but for some reason he had calmly assured his mother that his day had been fine, escaping to his room as soon as possible, and promptly burst into tears.

His mom finds him like that half an hour later and looks terrified when Blaine blinks up at her, as if she'd momentarily thought he had finished off the job, that he was lying there dead. Blaine's brain thinks he should feel guilty, but his gut feels strangely satisfied at the thought.

"Sweetie?" She asks, kneeling down beside him.

Blaine has no words for her so she just looks up and down his body, as if searching for invisible wounds, and then starts stroking his hair in a too-fast motion.

"Your dad's home and he brought that movie you wanted to see, the one with the dancing—"

"—I just want to go to bed." He interrupts, eyes tired thanks to the crying. "I'll watch it tomorrow." He adds when his mom's smile droops.

"If you're sure, sweetie? You haven't had any dinner yet." She sounds so bloody maternal—a regular Carol Hudson. It doesn't suit her.

"I'm sure." He says, getting up and crossing over to his chest of drawers, pulling out the first pair of pyjamas he sees.

He pointedly walks to his bed and pulls his hoodie off and she gets the hint, murmuring a quiet "Let me know if you need anything, sweetie" and pulling the door almost, but not quite shut behind her.

Blaine takes his time getting changed and brushing his teeth, wondering how to get out of school tomorrow, or whether it's best to just pretend to go and then skip it. But where could he go to? He doesn't fancy sitting alone in the Lima Bean all day.

He has just chugged back a glass of water—his throat gets dry too quickly at the moment—and is climbing into bed when his door slides open again.

"What?" He snaps, annoyed by now at his mother's inability to leave him alone.

"Sweetie, Kurt's on the phone—he wants to speak to you."

Blaine's eyes narrow as she comes towards him, phone outstretched; obviously what she just said was a lie. If Kurt had wanted to contact him, he would have text him or rung Blaine's cell phone, he definitely wouldn't have rung the Andersons' home phone. Therefore his mother must have rung Kurt and forced him to speak to Blaine. _Kurt_ who just got back to New York and probably has a million things to catch up on and who needs to give Blaine space.

"Tell him I'm busy—or sleeping." Blaine says loud enough that Kurt can probably hear him down the line.

His mom brings the phone back to her ear and opens her mouth to speak, but then stops, presumably listening to something on the other end. "Ok," She says, smoothing her dress down in an action that is fast becoming a nervous twitch. "Ok, nice to speak to you, Kurt."

Blaine exhales in relief, assuming that Kurt has told his mom to leave it for once, but then she puts the phone right next to him on the bed, smiles tiredly at him and leaves again, this time closing the door properly.

Damn it. There's no way in hell he can sit here and ignore Kurt now; he could never just end the call and cut him off. With shaking fingers, he reaches for the phone and presses it to his ear. There's no sound except for both of their breathing for a minute—Kurt's a comforting presence and his own an unpleasant reminder of what shouldn't be anymore. Naturally, Kurt breaks the quiet.

"So are you going to tell me why your mom rang in a bit of a panic?" Well, at least Kurt isn't pretending that he was the one to call.

"Hasn't she already briefed you?" Blaine bites, sarcasm giving away the feeling of defensiveness which has materialised out of nowhere.

"Sort of, but I'd like to hear your side of the story." There's a rustling from the other end, like Kurt is pulling curtains shut.

"Don't you have work or something?" Blaine is aware he sounds bitter and ridiculously petty, especially given the fact that they discussed this literally _two days ago_, but Blaine's mouth doesn't seem to be connected to his brain nowadays. And vice versa to be honest, although his brain seems to be isolated from everything so that's not really a surprise.

"No, I'm all yours for the evening if you need me to be." Kurt still sounds incredibly calm like he's worked out Blaine's battle strategy before Blaine himself has even drawn it up. It's frustrating and comforting and disconcerting and Blaine is conflicted as per usual.

"I was crying and she freaked out." It doesn't begin to explain anything, but Blaine doesn't know _how_ to explain it.

"That's because she cares about you—and you gave her a pretty big scare recently."

"Sorry." Blaine says, not apologising for his mother's fright.

"It's ok—well, it's not, but I know what you meant, I think. Well, I don't know what you _mean_, but yeah…" Kurt trails off and Blaine's stomach contracts painfully. Kurt isn't meant to stumble over his words, or ramble, or trail off; he's meant to say things that make sense, that comfort Blaine and make the numbness go away.

Blaine doesn't say anything else, fighting the urge to throw the phone away from him. Eventually Kurt gives in and continues.

"Was school ok?" He asks and Blaine thinks about it logically.

"Yes. I mean it was school, but it was alright."

"Mm." Kurt hums in acknowledgment. "Well Sam said you ate with them at lunch?"

"And wasn't that the highlight of my day." Blaine is seriously considering launching the phone at his mirror, destroying it and his reflection in one fell swoop. To his surprise, Kurt just laughs.

"Well his conversation isn't exactly scintillating, is it?" He says and Blaine can hear his smile through his words; even in that form it's beautiful.

"Not exactly; he's not you."

"_Blaine._" Kurt sounds physically pained and Blaine would feel guilty but he's still just the wrong side of numb.

"Sorry, I take it back."

"Please don't."

There's another pause and Blaine is so over trying to decide whether it's uncomfortable or not.

"Why were you crying earlier?" The question is direct and takes him by surprise. He has to consider it for a moment.

"I don't know." He says eventually and he's being one hundred percent honest.

"Ok," Kurt doesn't query it; he seems to realise that Blaine is being genuine. "Ok, but next time it happens, can you send me a text? It doesn't have to say what's wrong, or even that you're upset, but just text me. And try not to get annoyed at your mom—she's trying really hard too."

The 'too' catches his attention and suddenly he imagines his mother alone in her room, crying on the bedroom floor, just like he was. The image slices through him painfully and then dissipates once more.

"Ok." It's all he can say, and somehow it's too much and not enough at the same time, all wrapped up with a red gift tag on top.

"Now try and get some sleep - did you see the episode of America's Next Top Model that was on earlier? I lost count of the number of times I face-palmed. Imagine how bad it was to warrant that. In fact don't; it'll give you nightmares."

Blaine smiles and then remembers that Kurt can't see him. It's weird how he can hide his emotions so much more easily down the phone.

"Night, Kurt." He tries to put his feelings into the words, but it sounds flat. He wonders how anyone ever thought he was a good actor.

"Night, Blaine. I love you." Kurt doesn't wait for Blaine to say it back, ending the call with a decisive click. Maybe, Blaine thinks, maybe that's a good thing. The phrase only has power when it's acknowledged — or at least that's what his therapist had said after the Sadie Hawkins incident. Apparently bullying doesn't count if you rise above it; apparently being a victim is merely a state of mind. He's so tired of being the victim.

He doesn't fall asleep for hours and his brain can only focus on America's Next Top Model for the first two minutes of tossing and turning, but he gets more sleep than the night before which is something. Each time he starts to get that disconnected feeling, the one where he feels like a balloon uselessly bobbing around his dark bedroom, he imagines Kurt speaking into his ear, his beautiful smile oozing through his words. It doesn't make Blaine feel any better—in fact, it makes him ache inside—but it stops him feeling detached. He might be anchored to pain, but at least he is momentarily protected from the wind.


	15. Chapter 15

Blaine tries to listen to reason and, when that fails, the Kurt-voice inside his head, but as soon as he opens his eyes the next morning, the sense of despair resurfaces, coating him from the inside out. Luckily for his mother— who has grown even more pale and anxious by the morning— his first therapy session is that afternoon. The only good point about that is he gets to miss school.

When he goes down for breakfast, his dad ignores him more forcefully than usual. Blaine is used to telling a held-up newspaper good morning and getting no reply; he's used to cold eyes skimming over his head; he's used to watching conversations occur without him. What Blaine is not used to is his father deliberately moving his cup away when he tries to pour coffee into it. What Blaine is certainly not used to is his father getting up from the table, expression livid, as soon as his mom casually mentions that Blaine's first appointment with Dr Marissa is today. The grumbled 'see you later' is most definitely aimed only at her as his father practically runs from the room.

It's funny because ever since Blaine can remember, his father has grilled into his sons the importance of being a real man and standing up to fears for the sake of appearance, and yet here he is running away like a terrified child. But then, Blaine supposes, it is all too easy to not practice what you preach; tell someone to have 'courage' and stand their ground and you inevitably end up crumbling under the pressure of your own advice. The bravest thing Blaine has done all day is get dressed and even that took a good forty-five minutes of internal arguments and bullying tactics along the lines of 'what would Kurt say?'

His mother looks on helplessly as the front door slams and then smiles weakly at Blaine. "I don't think he slept very well…" She offers, gathering up the two sets of untouched plates. Blaine snatches the pain au chocolat off his plate as his mom goes to pick it up, and her smile widens as if Blaine wanting to eat something is the best news since Cooper landed that big commercial. It instantly makes any semblance of hunger dissipate but, remembering what Kurt had said last night, he keeps the pastry anyway. He can always flush it down the toilet later.

As the day wears on, it's clear that his mother is waiting for another breakdown. Blaine had made his opinion on seeing a shrink pretty clear in the hospital, but Doctor Kazaki had discussed it with him in her gentle but firm doctor voice, implying that he couldn't be discharged until he agreed to a course of sessions. Blaine had reluctantly agreed to turn up to the appointments, but he certainly hadn't agreed to participate in the weird mind games and _let's talk about your feelings_ bullshit. He figured he could just sit there and nod when appropriate until they gave up and either pronounced him broken beyond repair or completely better just to get rid of him. Resigned to his fate, he makes a point of always looking busy when his mom comes in every half hour, supposedly to ask him if he wants anything, though really just to check that he isn't tying a noose.

What does it matter if he spends the whole morning and early afternoon staring into space, thinking about nothing in particular? As long as he has a book in his hand and periodically flicks a few pages on, he can pretend to be reading and put her mind at rest. For some reason he's too nervous to eat at lunchtime—which is ridiculous since he's already decided they can't force him to say anything—and tells his mom that he's still full from breakfast. He neglects to mention that he never actually ate the pain au chocolat. She sighs, but doesn't push and Blaine wonders whether he could physically be more of a disappointment to his parents. Instead of eating, he traces little crosses on the backs of his hands, watching the little white lines form and then fade as his skin is pulled slightly. Against his darker skin, it almost looks like little waves dissolving into sand. Blaine wishes he were sand being pummelled down by a current—or maybe he'd rather be the wave, crashing into sand particles resembling Kurt. Destruction is beautiful, he thinks, slowly taking a jacket out of his closet and heading downstairs to put on his shoes.

When Blaine is shown into the office, he is immediately struck by how stereotypical it is. There's a recliner pushed against one wall, an adjacent sofa with some faux-renaissance pattern covering it, a long window along the other side, looking out into a little manicured garden, and potted plants along the windowsill, all of which fulfil Blaine's expectations. And then there's the large desk directly opposite the door with a chair either side, the further of which Dr Marissa is currently sat on. Blaine is surprised to see a man—the surname had sounded feminine somehow in his head. He has dark hair, mainly straight but spiked up slightly at the front into a ridiculous little point, and modern-looking glasses framing his eyes which crinkle slightly as he smiles at Blaine, standing up and warmly holding out his hand. Blaine is further taken aback by his casual clothing, the dark jeans and navy jumper a stark contrast to imagined white coats and formal suits.

"Hi — Blaine, right?" He says and his voice is pleasant enough. Blaine shakes the proffered hand, doing his best to keep his grip firm. He gestures for Blaine to sit down on the chair in front of him as he flicks open a binder on the desk. This, Blaine had expected, and he tries to read what has been written about him from upside down. Dr Marissa chuckles and Blaine looks up to find him watching his efforts.

"You can read them if you'd like," He offers, turning the binder round so Blaine can properly make out the words. Surprisingly, they're not actually statements of his craziness from various witnesses, but rather medical reports from his time in the hospital. Most of it is medical jargon, but Blaine spots the details of his current anti-depressants.

"So," Dr Marissa continues after a moment. "Do you understand why you're here, Blaine?"

Blaine lets his eyes drift back up to his face as the binder is turned back around again. "Because I can't be trusted around sleeping pills?"

Dr Marissa chuckles again, though Blaine doesn't see what is remotely funny about his answer. "Well, that's technically correct, I suppose. But you're not here just because of that. You're mainly here because your doctor thought you needed someone to discuss things with—that maybe you'd been feeling down before you attempted to take your own life."

"No shit." Blaine snaps before realising who he's talking to. "Sorry. It's just isn't that generally why people try to kill themselves?"

"Well, with some people, it all happens rather quickly—an instinctive reaction to a sudden change in their life, but Doctor Kazaki seemed to think that in your case it had been building up for a long time, that you'd been planning it for a while. And that you weren't going to get back on your feet again without some help beyond the medication. Would you say that's a fair judgement?"

Blaine shrugs. "I don't see why my opinion matters— Everyone seems to know better than me anyway."

"That's where you're wrong, Blaine. You know yourself better than anyone and I'm not about to put words into your mouth in these sessions. I'm here to talk things through with you and start resolving any feelings you might have."

"I don't want to talk about my feelings." Blaine states outright. "Half the time I don't even have any." He adds, glaring at the framed photo on the desk; it's a neutral picture of a beach, and Blaine wishes it was a bit more personal. Why couldn't Dr Marissa have a picture of his kid or even his cat?

"I think that's all the more reason to discuss them, then."

"Oh." Blaine says, because what the hell else is he meant to say to that?

"Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions, okay?" Dr Marissa is flipping the page in the binder, a new form on display. Blaine doesn't attempt to read this one.

_Here we go…_ He thinks and then realises he's said it out loud when Dr Marissa smiles.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to psychoanalyse all your answers. I merely want to find out a bit more about you."

Blaine blinks at him. "So no weird picture games?"

"No, Blaine, no weird games." He pulls a pen out of his desk drawer, flicking the lid off with a satisfying click.

"And no mental asylums?" Blaine means it as a joke but it comes off way too serious.

"Nope. No mental asylums and no crazy pills, I promise. I'm not even in charge of your medication."

Blaine is genuinely surprised at this. "You're not? Who is then?"

"That's between Dr Kazaki and her colleagues. I'm not a psychiatrist, Blaine; I'm a therapist." His tone remains so freaking steady and reassuring, but it only serves to irritate Blaine.

"So why does your name have a 'Dr' in front of it then?"

"Because I have a PhD. I'm not a medical official—I just work with them as part of a team."

"Oh." Blaine says again, feeling abashed for some reason.

"No worries; it's a common misconception." He pushes his glasses up his nose and then folds his hands in front of him on the desk. "So, you're in high school, right?"

"Yeah…" Blaine says reluctantly, wondering what that has to do with anything.

"Do you have a favourite subject?"

"Uh, well, I quite like Biology…and, uh, I did like Glee club and performing and stuff…"

"Isn't that show choir?"

"Um, yeah…but I don't do it anymore so…"

"That's a shame. How come?"

Blaine thinks about it. "Because I wasn't very good at performing anymore."

"Shame." Dr Marissa repeats, writing something on the paper. Blaine's eyes narrow, instantly suspicious. "Do you miss it?"

"No." Blaine says too quickly, resolved to stop giving him ammunition.

"Do you want to go to college?" He changes tactic and this question makes Blaine pause again. He'd always just sort of assumed that college was the next step—specifically that NYADA was his destiny—but now he's not so sure.

"Probably." He settles on, picking at a loose thread connected to the seam of his jeans. "I've applied to some."

"Awesome. Do most of your friends want to go to college?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." He decides not to mention that he doesn't really have any friends any more.

"Do any of them want to go to the same place as you?"

Damn it. Dr Marissa is annoyingly perceptive. But then, Blaine supposes, that's sort of his job.

"A lot of us in Glee wanted to go to New York."

"Wow, that sounds pretty cool. You're all planning to conquer Broadway, huh?"

"Something like that." Blaine mutters, and when Dr Marissa doesn't ask anything else straight away, he feels strangely compelled to keep talking. "None of us are actually _that_ good though—except maybe Rachel; she's loud and pushy enough—and Kurt, obviously."

"Are they your closest friends?" Dr Marissa asks as Blaine internally curses. He was not going to mention that name.

"Not really. They, uh, they moved there this year actually."

"And do you still keep in touch?"

_We didn't. Not since I destroyed everything and broke Kurt's heart. Not before I fucked up and guilt-tripped Kurt into coming home again, forced him to start speaking to me again. _

"No."

"Hmm, okay." Dr Marissa writes something else down and Blaine's eyes narrow further, but it only serves to emphasise the tears involuntarily forming there. "From what Doctor Kazaki said, a Mr Kurt Hummel visited you quite a bit when you were in the hospital."

It's a statement not a question so Blaine doesn't answer. Dr Marissa glances up and Blaine knows he sees the tears, but thankfully he doesn't comment on it.

"Does Kurt mean a lot to you?"

This time Blaine can't answer not because he's unsure, but because he cannot possibly put his answer into words. He forcefully blinks back the tears.

"I…yeah..."

"So you were best friends and then he moved to New York?" Dr Marissa's assumption annoys Blaine immensely. He wonders if Dr Marissa is a typical Ohioan and he's just found a way to piss him off. He decides to try it.

"I'm gay." Blaine states, letting go of the thread between his fingers and looking Dr Marissa directly in the eyes. Frustratingly, he doesn't even flinch.

"So Kurt is your boyfriend?" He asks, picking up his pen once more.

"Ex-boyfriend." Blaine corrects instinctively, the word constricting his insides.

"Are you annoyed at Kurt for going to New York without you?"

"No—I was the one who told him to go." Blaine answers honestly and _dammit, that wasn't part of the plan. _

"Ok. So are you annoyed at yourself for doing that?"

"No." Blaine says, and then really thinks about it. "Yes—well, not really, but…sort of? I don't really—ugh!" He face screws up in frustration and, naturally, Dr Marissa writes something down.

"Do you get frustrated a lot?"

"I guess." He fights to make his voice neutral once more — why is it that the one time he needs to remain emotionless he can't?

"How do you deal with that frustration?"

Blaine goes back to shrugging now that his tears are in check. "I don't know."

"Do you self-harm, Blaine?"

Blaine opens his mouth to say no and then thinks about it. He doesn't self-harm as such but he does like to bite the delicate skin on the back of his hands and arms until it stings ferociously. He likes to run his fingers over the little raised line, aggravating the painful rawness by rubbing over it. He's not self-harming, there's no actual blood—if anything, he's self-beautifying. Because those little bumps in his skin are beautiful; they're reminders that he can feel something if he tries hard enough. Then there's the little thrill that goes down his spine each time his teeth press just a bit too hard, adrenaline surging up inside of him as his survival instinct kicks in. He likes the way he can confuse his own body, make his brain think that he's under attack when in reality he's inflicting it on himself. It makes him feel powerful. Plus, for a fraction of a second, as his pain receptors scream at him, the fire that he now inextricably associates with Kurt flares to life. It's not much, but it's all he has of someone who is no longer his.

"I don't know." He says eventually, and surprisingly Dr Marissa just nods.

"Do you ever blame Kurt for feeling frustrated?"

"What? No, of course not—it's not his fault. I broke us."

"And does Kurt blame _you_ for that?"

"Yes." Blaine answers instantly. Why wouldn't he when it was undeniably Blaine's fault?

"Has Kurt told you that he blames you?"

"…No. But, I mean, he stopped speaking to me so...I just knew, I guess. I cheated. "

Once more, Blaine is impressed by Dr Marissa's poker face—and his perceptive ability to ignore the obvious fuse-lighter and focus instead on the seemingly mundane. "Kurt stopped talking to you?"

Dr Marissa keeps saying Kurt's name, every single time he asks Blaine a question, and Blaine hates it. The letters don't sound right in his mouth, they sound harsh somehow—and Kurt's name shouldn't be harsh. It's the same when he says Blaine's name, too. It comes out sounding patronising and Blaine finds himself wishing that it was Kurt sitting opposite him; Kurt always said his name beautifully.

"I think I'm going to cry." He informs Dr Marissa, folding one of his hands over the other as the tears well up inside his eyes once more. _Why do you always make such a mess, Blaine? _

Dr Marissa opens a desk drawer, pulling out a box of tissues and sliding them over the desk to Blaine. "Here you go," He says with a sad smile. "Use as many as you like."

"You must've seen a lot of people cry." Blaine remarks, mainly to clear Kurt's voice from his head.

"A fair few, yes."

"Don't you get fed up?"

"Not really, no," He was scribbling on the form now, giving Blaine privacy to dab at the tears. "I suppose because no one's tears are the same as the last person's. Does that make sense?"

"Aren't you the professional? Shouldn't you know the answer to that?"

Dr Marissa chuckles _again_. "Probably, but I'm asking you."

"Well…No, it doesn't make much sense to me. But then nothing does anymore so I really don't think I'm the best person to ask."

"On the contrary, that makes you the perfect person to ask."

"You're the weirdest fucking psychiatrist I've ever met." Blaine says honestly, wiping his eyes roughly.

"I'm not a psychiatrist." Dr Marissa reminds him. "But as your therapist I can say that was a fairly successful session and I shall see you in two days. We're meeting after school next time, right?"

"That's it?" Blaine asks, looking around for a clock.

Dr Marissa turns his wrist so Blaine can read his watch face. "Yep. Did you think it would be longer?"

"No, I guess I just thought we'd do…more."

"Are you disappointed by the lack of tell-me-what-you-see-in-this-picture exercises?" He laughs, slipping the form back into the binder and closing it. Blaine doesn't answer, biting his lip. "Look, Blaine, I'm going to be completely honest with you. This is going to be a long process, but it doesn't need to be a daunting one. We're going to take baby steps and just discuss things, like today. And if there's ever anything in particular you want to talk about, feel free to say so. If not, I shall keep asking you random questions until we get somewhere, again, like today."

"…Okay." Blaine says slowly, one of the knots in his stomach lessening slightly. Only fifty-thousand more to go, he thinks sarcastically, squeezing the tissue in his hand.

"Baby steps, Blaine. Rome wasn't built in a day."

Blaine closes the door behind him and braces himself for his mother's questioning. He decides that he sort-of likes Dr Marissa, although his mind-reading abilities are really fucking annoying. And he's not sure whether he trusts him to defeat the balloon feeling yet. Or to take a hold of the string and guide Blaine out of the rocks to be honest, but he prefers him to the anti-depressants. He prefers most things to those.


	16. Chapter 16

Kurt picks up after the second ring that evening and Blaine gets the suspicion that he's been waiting by his phone. He sounds too breathless to be doing nothing, though.

"H-Hello?"

"Um, hi?" Blaine greets uncertainly, listening to the muffled voices that bleed into each other, vague and fuzzy, Kurt's fingers presumably held over the speaker. "I can call back if this is a bad—"

"—No!" Kurt practically shouts, and the voices stop. "No, don't worry, I'm just—" Blaine hears the jarring click of a forcefully shut door. "—Going somewhere quieter."

Based on the traffic sounds, Kurt is outside and Blaine's confused as to how this is in any way quieter. He knows better than to ask at any rate.

"So, how was it?" Kurt asks and he sounds weirdly nervous. _Why?_ Blaine wonders. _Is he nervous because of his own strange behaviour, or nervous to hear about your day? _

"It was…okay actually. I didn't think it would be, but it—was. Sort of." He hates how much he stumbles through sentences nowadays; he sounds ridiculously unsure of every word. He sounds foreign to himself, like he no longer belongs in his own brain.

"That's amazing! I'm so pleased!" Kurt sounds elated. Too elated, really.

"Yeah…" It's funny, he'd meant to say nothing during the therapy session and ended up revealing far too much, and now here he is, having planned to tell Kurt every detail about Dr Marissa and their discussion, unable to say anything at all.

Kurt laughs happily and then a siren blares and he's drowned out; he's gone quiet by the time it has passed.

"We talked about you." Blaine doesn't know what makes him say it, but it falls out of his mouth like everything else does. There's a horrible pause on the other end of the line.

"…Oh?" Kurt says quietly, barely a question.

"Yeah." Blaine doesn't elaborate; it's clear that Kurt doesn't want him to. God, he can already feel himself slipping upwards and out of Kurt's tentative grip once more; bobbing uselessly into the darkness as the reality of _nothing ever changing_ filters into focus. He feels his chest constrict with that weird panic-come-hopelessness feeling, his vision going too sharp too quickly. The pause goes on and on and Blaine hates it. Then it's broken by a voice—a deep voice that is clearly not Kurt's and something in Blaine snaps.

He presses the 'end call' button and drops his phone without thinking, as if it's suddenly burning his hand. Except it isn't and that's the problem; Blaine wants it to burn—Kurt should cause fire—but all he feels is dread shivering through his muscles as numbness pours into him once more. It's like he's some weird human glow-stick that's just snapped in two, the poisonous liquid inside seeping out. Fuck, he hates this feeling. He hates himself more for allowing this feeling to happen; it shouldn't even exist. _Or maybe you shouldn't exist. _

Somehow he ends up on the bed, arms tucked protectively around himself, falling apart anyway. He stares at the wall until he thinks he's about to explode from the irritating whiteness of it and then rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow — not quite forcefully enough to suffocate himself, but just enough to be aware of the option. He doesn't fully understand why he's gone so numb and his inability to understand his own stupid emotions prevents him from fighting them. _You can't fight something cannot be punched_, he thinks, and slowly the thought transmutes into images of little red punching gloves pummelling into his body, bruising him over and over again. He can't feel any actual pain, but it's still satisfying as the punches pick up speed until they're a wall of dancing red, pushing him backwards inside his own mind.

He watches his door slide open sometime later and registers the intake of breath before his mother's hands are on him, fluttering at his neck and, _oh God_, she's checking for a pulse. He rolls over—he's pretty sure she swallows a scream—and tries to say something reassuring. _It's okay, I'm not dead, please stop thinking that's going to happen, I'm so sorry I keep scaring you, I'm fine. _His mouth won't move though so he just reaches out and clutches hold of her arm; he doesn't know what his aim is until his mother wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her. It's an awkward angle, made more so by the years of misunderstanding between them, but Blaine needs someone to hold him together for a moment, just while he catches his breath. If it comforts her, too, that's a bonus.

She sits down on the bed and doesn't let go of him, stroking his hair like she's done far too much recently. Blaine hears footsteps approaching and closes his eyes, not ready for the illusion of comfort to shatter just yet. His father's voice asks various questions — he doesn't sound angry, just tired—and his mom replies with murmurs of '…I have no idea…' and '…on the phone…' and '…contact his therapist…'

After a minute, he blocks them out. Or, rather, he floats up above them, out of their way — out of the mess that he caused and keeps causing no matter how hard he tries not to. He doesn't understand how it's possible either; he's out of air yet he keeps deflating anyway.

MMM

Kurt inhales and unconsciously starts counting to ten, unsure what to say. _We talked about you. _Kurt doesn't know how to feel about that.

Well, he does, but he doesn't like it. Blaine talks about him with his therapist; he is one of Blaine's issues; he is responsible for Blaine trying to kill himself. This isn't new information, per se, but it is the first time that Blaine has acknowledged it out loud and it makes him feel the raw guilt that he has been pushing away for so long. He wonders how to put his regret into words, and barely registers the balcony door sliding open until Adam is tapping him on his shoulder.

"You okay out here?—it's freezing!" He asks, and Kurt just registers the hitch of breath on the other end of the line before the decisive dial tone tells him Blaine has disconnected. _Fuck._


	17. Chapter 17

Kurt ignores Adam's questions in favour of pressing the redial button over and over again. Blaine isn't picking up and the foreboding in Kurt's chest expands like Blaine's famous microwave brownie-in-a-mug until it starts to turn into full-blown panic.

"Pick up, _come on_!" He shouts as he gets Blaine's voicemail yet again. It's not even his voice anymore, just an automated response and then a taunting beep.

"Kurt, just come inside. He probably had to go do homework or something." Adam places his hand on Kurt's shoulder in what is probably meant to be a reassuring gesture but, combined with his words, just irritates Kurt.

"He just hung up suddenly. He heard your voice and he just—hung up."

"Oh." Adam says and at least he doesn't attempt to say anything else—doesn't attempt to defend himself—just tugs Kurt back inside and closes the door. Rachel glances over from her spot on the sofa, sees the look on Kurt's face, the way he's clutching his phone to his chest, and throws herself towards him.

"What happened? What's wrong?" She asks frantically and Kurt wonders where to even begin. So he just drops her gaze and returns to his previous occupation of dialling Blaine's cell phone over and over again. Adam and Rachel are having what can only be described as a forceful-whisper conversation to his left, but he honestly wouldn't care if the building collapsed right now because Blaine isn't picking up and this can only mean something very, very bad.

He doesn't know what to do. If Blaine has done something stupid because of him and his fucking inability to just voice his feelings he—God, he can't even think about it. He wishes he could redo the last twenty minutes so, so badly; everything had burnt down around him before he even noticed the flames infiltrating the corner of his vision.

_You never notice, do you?_ He thinks viciously, hurling his phone at the sofa hard enough that it bounces off onto the floor. Rachel flinches, hand covering her mouth, and two pairs of eyes turn towards him once more. He doesn't even care. Let them stare at him as he stands there with his hair a mess and his scarf half-hanging off his shoulders, tears unashamedly massacring his face. He _doesn't fucking care_ because Blaine isn't picking up and he's probably—Blaine is—_Oh God_—

Somehow he ends up on the floor, Rachel curled against his side, hugging him protectively and Adam crouched down in front of him, murmuring something about breathing in time with him. Apparently he's hyperventilating, but he can't for the life of him stop the jagged gasps tearing their way out of his throat. No matter how many times Adam breaths in and out slowly, counting each inhale, Kurt can't make his own breathing fall in sync with it. He'll _never _be able to.

"Kurt, please, you need to calm down." Rachel says, her hand stroking his arm and Kurt fights the instinct to throw her off. "If you can calm down, I have an idea how you can contact him."

Kurt looks up at that, breaths momentarily halting completely.

"You have his parents' number right? I mean, like, his home phone number? So you can ring them and make sure he's ok. But you need to actually be able to form coherent sentences first which involves breathing."

And so he stops thinking about the what-ifs and focusses every ounce of energy in his body on taming his gasps. He feels light-headed and he has the strange sensation that his feet are no longer connected to his body. It takes far too long—just the thought of how many useless minutes have gone by threatens to start the hyperventilating all over again—but eventually he manages to force the air into his lungs at a normal rate, even if he feels like he's just run a marathon. He's sick to his stomach and really wants to lie down, preferably with his head under a pillow, but nothing in the world could stop him from reaching for the phone and address book in Adam's hands. His hands are shaking so much that he can't turn the pages so Rachel does it for him, and they're both thankful that 'Anderson' comes at the front of the alphabetically-organised list. She types in the number for him as well and then passes the phone to him; Kurt doesn't even notice Adam mouth something to Rachel and then slip out the front door, too engrossed in the endless ringing against his ear.

Each ring seems to be teasing him, asking why he's such an idiot. _You shouldn't have reacted like that. Why's it always you that does this to him? No, stop it, you said you weren't going to make this about you, remember?_ _Oh, God, please be okay, I can't lose you again_—

"Hello?" The voice that answers after the longest eternity of Kurt's life—including the plane ride back to Lima when his world first tore into pieces—sounds incredibly tired. It has none of its usual polish, or assurance, or commanding dignity. Blaine's father sounds broken.

"It—it's Kurt." He says; it's pathetic to his own ears.

"Oh." Mr Anderson exhales. "Hello, Kurt."

"Is—Is Blaine…?" He trails off, unable to finish the question. He doesn't really know _how_ to finish it.

"He's asleep."

"Asleep, as in…?"

"As in he's—he'll be fine. His mother's with him now."

And suddenly Kurt doesn't know what else to say. He's relieved—of course he is, he's so relieved he could burst—but he also feels a sudden ache. It's not quite loneliness, or hurt, or worry. He just feels profoundly anxious for no reason.

"I'm sorry if he caused any distress." Mr Anderson tries, as if hedging how to get Kurt off the phone.

"N-No, he didn't. Do anything, I mean. We were just…" He trails off and Mr Anderson hums as if he gets it when Kurt knows for a fact that he doesn't understand the first thing about Kurt's stunted words.

"Right, well, I'll let you get back to your evening in peace, then." Mr Anderson says as if it's that simple. For him, it probably is. "I'll see if Blaine's up to a phone call tomorrow."

"Oh, um, thank you—yes, tell him to ring me and-and tell him that I—make sure he knows—"

"—Will do. Bye, Kurt." Mr Anderson ends the call just like that, not even letting Kurt try and get the words out.

He thinks of the Anderson household, how quiet it probably is now. He thinks of how Mr Anderson has probably gone back to the paperwork in his study, how Mrs Anderson has probably fallen asleep next to the bed upstairs, her book-club novel in her lap. He imagines Blaine curled up in his bed, half-asleep, half-awake, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as his mind swirls with horrible, untrue thoughts. He imagines Blaine's fingers clutching at the covers, desperate to hold onto something, his feet folded neatly over themselves to keep them warm, his mouth pulled into a tight, unrelenting line, his forehead creased with doubt over things that should be the most certain in the world.

The knot in Kurt's stomach contracts further, and finally he recognises it. Homesickness. He feels homesick.


	18. Chapter 18

**N/B: I am so sorry it's late, but I've had exams and been very busy generally so it took me a long time to edit this. **

Blaine stares at the desk in front of him and notices it's messier than the last time he was here; perhaps he's messed up the schedule with his emergency appointment and now everything is hectic. Dr Marissa doesn't let on if that is the case.

"What led to the cheating?" He asks casually, uncapping the same pen as last time. Blaine notices that he phrases it to avoid placing any blame which doesn't seem very fair at all; Blaine deserves to feel guilty.

Blaine shrugs and wishes he had something to fiddle with; his hands feel too large and out of place in his lap. He definitely should have worn a hoodie to tuck his hands into. "I don't really know."

"Okay," Dr Marissa writes something even though Blaine has given him nothing to write down. "I don't want to put words in your mouth, but if I asked you some questions about how you were feeling back then, maybe we can figure it out together?"

Blaine shrugs. He really doesn't want to be here, but his mother had insisted on bringing his appointment forward after last night's fiasco. This was the earliest time they could squeeze him in and Blaine is pretty sure Dr Marissa is working over-time since it's six o'clock in the evening.

"So were you still in Glee club? Were you still singing?"

"Um, yeah." He pauses, almost elaborates and then stops himself. Dr Marissa seems to sense this because he waits Blaine out, eyebrows raised just slightly. "I was in, like, all the clubs back then."

Dr Marissa nods, smiling. "And you enjoyed them all?"

"Yeah, mainly. A few of them were a bit weird, but they kept me busy during lunch breaks."

"Were your friends in these clubs too?"

"Some of them, I guess. Not many." He adds, thinking about it properly.

"So would it be fair to say you were getting a little bit distant from your friends if you were busy every lunchtime?"

"Probably." Blaine agrees, wondering if that's another thing he's meant to feel guilty for.

"Did you start to feel lonely?"

"Kurt stopped answering my calls." He says instead. It doesn't answer the question, and yet it really, really does.

"Okaaay." Dr Marissa draws the 'a' sound out as he writes and then pauses, tilts his head to the side. "So you were still very active and busy, and you stopped having down time?"

"No. I mean, I probably got more time off than before because I stopped going out with the New Directions quite so much."

"The New Directions…?"

"That's the name of our Glee club."

"I see. But what I mean, Blaine—sorry, I didn't phrase this very well—is that you had time off, but you stopped having _down time _where you could just discuss trivial things with, say, Kurt and not think too carefully about it."

Blaine lets out a laugh. "Yeah, you could say that. I definitely started _thinking_ more."

"About anything in particular?"

"Just…stuff." He answers unhelpfully and Dr Marissa presumably decides he's pushed far enough in that direction because he changes tact.

"So would you like to discuss last night? Your mom sounded quite concerned on the phone."

Blaine sighs, yet another wave of guilt cresting inside of him. "Yeah, she does that."

"_All _mothers do that." Dr Marissa corrects, grinning. Blaine tries to work out whether he's attractive or not—it's a game he likes to play with himself sometimes—but whilst his therapist isn't exactly unpleasant on the eyes, Blaine can't quite see him as good-looking. He can't seem to find anyone good-looking nowadays. "So…?" Dr Marissa prompts after a moment's silence and Blaine snaps back to the issue at hand.

"I dunno…Kurt rang." Blaine knows he sounds like a broken record, but he doesn't know what else to say. _All roads lead back to Kurt._

"And you fought?"

"Nope. We were chatting—about you actually—but it was really awkward and weird, and then I realised he had company."

"Another man?" Damn, Dr Marissa is good at his job.

Blaine nods and can't meet his eyes all over again. "That wasn't even why—I mean, I don't—but it was just…it was weird."

"This next question's a little tough, but I need you to be honest with me, Blaine, okay? Last night, did you feel suicidal again?"

"A—a bit? Not really, I just felt…I don't know, maybe like I didn't want to exist? But I don't want to die or anything like that, not anymore." He hates how pathetic his voice has gone, but Dr Marissa doesn't acknowledge it.

"Ok," He says, writing one more thing down. "Ok, so here's what we're going to do. Every time you start to feel like that, I want you to think of one good memory, or one thing that makes you happy, but it can't be related to Kurt. You can't stop yourself feeling like that, but you can start training your brain how to pull yourself out of it again, even if it's just until you can talk things through with me. But it can't be about Kurt. Is that okay?"

Blaine frowns. "Most of my good thoughts are about Kurt. He's my fire."

If the last part of the sentence is strange to Dr Marissa, he doesn't let it show. "I know; that's exactly why you should try and find something else to use. It could be about a childhood vacation, or when you first brought a pet home or—I don't know—maybe when you used to sing in glee club?"

Blaine nods, wondering if thinking about the Warblers when he first joined Dalton would work.

"I've nothing against Kurt and I definitely don't think you should stop talking to him, or thinking about him, or anything like that. I just want you to use something else to help when you feel like maybe you'd rather not exist at that moment, ok? Because Kurt can make you happy, but I don't want him to become your happiness, if that makes sense."

"Yeah, no, I get it." Blaine says, and he thinks he really might.

"Awesome." Dr Marissa smiles, capping his pen. "So I'll see you in three days—unless you think you might want another chat sooner?"

It's funny how much more harmless 'chat' sounds compared to the word appointment. Blaine appreciates the effort. "I think Friday will be fine—but, I might change my mind." He covers himself quickly, just to be on the safe side.

"Awesome." Dr Marissa repeats, standing up to show Blaine out. "Go home and watch some trashy television or something. And I've told your parents that we'll tackle going back to school next week so don't worry about that. Have a good few days, Blaine."

"Yeah, you too." Blaine says mindlessly, feeling the cold air of the reception area hit him as he steps out of the office. It's going to be a long three days.

His mom asks him questions non-stop on the way home, very few of which Blaine can actually answer truthfully, and he's pretty glad when they pull into the driveway. She only drops him off with a quick, "Tell your father to pop that pizza in the oven!" before driving off again to her book club.

As soon as he goes inside, though, he misses her chatter. It's better than his father sat in stony silence at the kitchen table, at any right.

"Hello." His father says, and Blaine thinks he's either had too much of the wine currently sitting in the glass in front of him, or his mom has blackmailed him into making an effort while she's out.

"Hi," He says back and checks the wine bottle on the counter which, surprisingly, is still pretty full. He decides he isn't really hungry so doesn't mention the pizza; his father's the sort to fix himself something at his own convenience anyway.

"How was the…appointment?" It's stilted and awkward, but Blaine takes the bait.

"It was actually good, thank you. We talked a lot of things through and it…helped, I guess."

"Good." His father takes a long sip of wine and a deep breath and continues, "Kurt rang last night."

"I know. Mom told me this morning."

His father nods, takes another sip of wine. Blaine watches his fingers turn the pages of the _Investors Chronicle_ he's reading, notices how much thinner they seem, veins protruding more with age.

"He said he loved you. I was supposed to tell you that."

He says it out of nowhere, just when Blaine is settling back into the silence, fingers drumming noiselessly against the counter, and he doesn't quite know what to make of it. "Oh. Um…thank you."

"I think he meant it." His dad is watching him—actually looking at Blaine's face—and Blaine wonders if he's someone fallen into a parallel universe on his way home.

Blaine considers the statement for a moment, then nods. "Maybe." He concedes.

His dad nods back, apparently satisfied that he has done his duty, and returns to his magazine. Blaine turns round slowly, glances at the wine.

"Can I have a glass?" He gestures to the bottle, and his dad hums his assent without looking; perhaps he can only stomach Blaine in small doses.

Blaine pours himself a large glass of the red liquid and heads upstairs, closing his bedroom door behind him. He takes an experimental sip and cringes slightly—he's never been a huge fan of red wine, especially if he's drinking alone. He places it on his nightstand and flops back on his bed, glancing at his phone where it lies next to him and pressing the home button out of habit. He's surprised when he sees Kurt's message, certain that he'd leave Blaine alone now he knew he was alright. He had definitely sent several months' worth of texts last night, all of which Blaine had somewhat guiltily deleted this morning without responding to. He was relieved when he heard that Kurt had rang; at least someone else had told him what a weirdo Blaine had been. Again.

The message lights up his screen and Blaine almost deletes it as well. _Almost._ But then he just sort of leaves it there, afraid to unlock the phone and read the rest of it. He sits up and reaches for his glass, forcing another few sips down and wondering why it's not helping him feel less anxious. The words of Kurt's message sit heavier in his stomach than any alcohol could so he swigs the last bit back and gives in, typing the passcode into his phone.

_I hope you're feeling better this morning—even if only a little bit! I'm so, so sorry about whatever last night's train wreck was. Hope you'll forgive me. I'd really like to hear from you whenever you're free. Just give me a call or we can skype or something. Hope to hear from you soon 3_

The first thing Blaine notices is that Kurt's said the word 'hope' a lot. It feels strangely like a barrier between the words on the screen and whatever Kurt really wanted to say, not that Blaine has any clue what that might be.

The heart at the end makes his chest flutter pleasantly and, brilliant, _now_ the wine starts to loosen him up. He very nearly rings Kurt on the spot but then he remembers his conversation with Dr Marissa and picks at his nails instead, trying not to think about how Kurt hated that particular habit. He then contemplates sending a text instead, just a quick reply to start up a semblance of communication, but every time he thinks of something to write, it gets all rambly in his head. He lets the phone lock itself as the minutes tick by and then unlocks it again on an impulse, firing off a quick text.

_3 _

Well, it's just a symbol, really. He's not even sure what it means— perhaps _message received_, or _thank you_, or _piss off_, or _God, I'm so in love with you._ Maybe it's all of these things rolled into one stupid little symbol.

He doesn't even know how Kurt interprets it since he doesn't reply. For once, though, Blaine doesn't feel resentful that Kurt's probably out living his life in New York, maybe even hanging out with his new male acquaintance. It's no longer reason to see a red that quickly fades into a blue; it's just a fact. The earth is round. Blaine dislikes red wine. Kurt is busy.

Maybe those therapy sessions are worth the money after all, he thinks as he settles back against the headboard, crossing one ankle over the other and flicking on his TV.


	19. Chapter 19

The week passes in a blur of anxious fussing on his mom's part and lots of trashy TV shows. He texts Kurt quite a bit, but not all of the time. Kurt has classes and work and _people_ to meet and Blaine has endless amounts of reality TV to plough through. When he gets bored, he finds his old _Friends_ boxset and starts to watch them, for once not unconsciously trying to compare himself to the characters and their situations. He really is content to just sit there and watch the familiar plots unravel, lips twitching slightly at the wittier lines.

He still feels like a balloon most of the time, except now he dislikes the detached sensation—as if he's about to plummet at any second but doesn't quite have the energy yet, his stomach tight and waiting. Before he was just resigned to it. He tells Dr Marissa this and apparently it's a good thing; it means Blaine no longer wants to fall, that his natural fight instinct is starting to overrule his brain. Still, it makes Blaine anxious and now that he's not resigned to it, he's kind of fed up with its ubiquitous presence.

Every time he feels like he's drifting—usually either late at night or when he gets up in the morning, occasionally at another random time for no reason at all—his natural instinct is to think of Kurt. His brain tells him to fight the stupid feeling before numbness creeps in and immediately his head fills with thoughts of familiar arms around him, his fingers twitching to reach for his phone. But he can't do that, not anymore.

It takes a lot of work to find an alternative. He tries thinking of other things from his past that made him happy, spontaneous front room performances with Coop when he was little, finding his home at Dalton, his friends in the Warblers. All of them are either tainted in some way (Cooper always critiqued his dance moves afterwards—_you're so boring to watch, Blainey_) or make him achingly nostalgic which is almost worse than the floating feeling itself.

He tries to use techniques that keep him in the present next. He forces himself to eat a square of chocolate, or raids the freezer and presses ice-cubes up and down his arms until he's shivering (he'd read on the internet that it's meant to help with self-harming and figured it might just ease the tension inside him in a similar way). Once he even tries to go for a walk until his mom freaks out over where he has gone and insists on picking him up in the car. He concludes that the present doesn't help either.

His last resort is to picture a future that's worth pulling himself gently back to the ground for. He starts by imagining himself in New York, name up in lights, belting out the last note to a standing ovation. But that seems way too farfetched now; he's made such a mess of things in this past year, there's no way he can even pretend he deserves that sort of success. Plus, he's pretty sure that the application he sent to NYADA is going to be wildly unsuccessful and he doesn't possess the self-determination to move to the big city by himself, not without the safety of college. So, no, he's not going to end up on Broadway; that ship has long since sailed off into the sunset without him aboard.

Instead, he imagines a different version of himself—a brighter, more confident, talented version. More like Cooper, but minus the cockiness and obsession with melodramatic hand gestures. He pictures himself eating lunch with a producer for his latest album, shaking hands and offering a trade mark grin before heading back to rehearsal at the theatre. He's surrounded by his fellow cast members who all find him so funny and down-to-earth, who joke around with him during breaks and watch in awe as they run scenes. Then he heads out into the bustling streets again, walking along for a bit, just enjoying the feeling that whilst no one's _watching_ him, he isn't invisible in this crowd; he belongs. He hails a taxi and gives his address, watching the huge buildings flash by with every block. He climbs the stairs to his apartment, content not to use the elevator, and opens the door as he calls, "I'm home, honey!" to the person he shares his life with. He always cuts himself off there; he refuses to imagine any version of himself with someone who isn't Kurt.

These mental pictures don't make him happy, not really; he's too aware that the shoes he's standing in don't fit. They do make him feel better, though, less like gravity is about to drop him hard over some rocks. Dr Marissa says that progress is progress no matter how small and shouldn't be underestimated. Blaine nods and pretends he believes him.

He goes back to school the following Monday and it's just as horrible as he expects it to be. The jocks still throw slurs in his direction, the New Directions are even more offputtingly nice than the last time, and his teachers keep trying to draw up study plans and tutoring sessions so he can graduate on time. He's already had enough by lunch but he forces himself to follow Tina to the canteen, nodding vaguely as she talks about some choreography she saw on YouTube. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he gingerly reaches to retrieve it, still pretending to listen to Tina's babbling.

_Courage_.

He reads the little word—he would know who it was from even if his phone didn't tell him— and although he is trying really hard not to base his entire being on Kurt, he can't help the way it lifts his mood exponentially. He actually offers his opinion on the skirt Tina is waxing lyrical about as they join the queue for food.

He soon falls back into a routine and, to his surprise, he doesn't feel like he's about to shatter. Not once. Yes, he still has bad days and they probably slightly outnumber the good, and he'll definitely be glad to leave high school behind when he graduates, but he doesn't cry himself to sleep and he stops feeling numb for long periods of time.

He even makes it through the worst Thanksgiving of his life, sitting at the table and forcing small talk with his parents (Cooper conveniently unable to return from LA where he's shooting his latest commercial). The turkey sort of tastes nice and his dad smiles when Blaine compliments him on it. It's not an idyllic family holiday and when he gets off the phone that evening from his half-hour conversation with Kurt, he allows a few tears to escape onto his pillow before he forces himself to sit up and go back downstairs. He watches some lame movie with his mother and doesn't get into bed until half ten—a late night for him. It only takes him a couple of hours to fall asleep, too, even if he has to clutch Margaret Thatcher Dog to his chest to do so.

It's all fine, really, until his Christmas plans are shattered. He's been looking forward to Christmas break for weeks, partly because it means no school for a while, but mostly because he gets to see Kurt. Then Kurt rings him up one night, the conversation drifting round to festive plans, and everything goes a little pear-shaped, Blaine's steadily-expanding world squashed in a heartbeat.

"I'm not coming back to Ohio." Kurt says the words in a rush, as if he didn't want to let them out in the first place. When Blaine doesn't say anything, he keeps going. "It's just not possible to get more time off work—I tried, I really did— and I'm late on a couple of school assignments so I really need to get those sorted. I just can't afford to fly back for two days in the middle of it all and I'm really, really sorry, Blaine. I'm desperate to see you, I promise, I miss you so much."

Kurt's voice cracks, but Blaine feels strangely calm as the words sink in. _I'm not coming back. _

"Ok…" Blaine says evenly, hand pushing an annoying curl back from his forehead. "That's ok."

"It's not, Blaine, and I'm _so_ sorry—"

"It's not your fault." Blaine cuts him off, unable to stand the despondency in his voice. "Does, um, does Burt know you're not coming back?"

"Yeah, he…well, he'll probably come to _me_ for a few days—if he can get the time off at the shop!" Kurt adds, as if somehow Burt's intention to visit makes him feel guilty. Blaine doesn't see why, though; of course Burt Hummel would fly across the country to be with his son.

"Cool." Blaine says, feeling tension leave his stomach, an emptiness left in its wake.

"Cool?"

"Yeah." Blaine glances around his room for inspiration. "Oh, weren't you going to tell me about the new summer collection in the works?"

"Um, yes, I—yeah, I was." Kurt doesn't sound at all convinced by Blaine's calm topic change, but he starts talking about anyway and Blaine just lets his voice pour over him, closing his eyes and trying not to drown.

When Kurt reluctantly hangs up twenty minutes later with promises to call the next day, Blaine breathes out in relief and sinks back into the mattress. The act is over, but he still feels like he's in someone else's body. Each time he thinks he's going to get his own skin back, it distorts into shrunken rubber and he's a balloon once more. He can feel himself lifting off the ground again, string slipping through everyone's lacklustre fingers and zigzagging into the night.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: I know this is short, but it is sort of important even though it doesn't contain much klaine. Hopefully the character development makes up for the lack of plot development!**

He's right back to square one after that; he can't sleep again and his appetite drops, everything becoming inanely pointless. He doesn't want people to catch on, though, especially when his mom has been so happy with him lately. He doesn't want to see the disappointment on her face when she realises that it's not going to get better; Blaine is stuck in some stupid, maddening circle that always leads him right back here and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

So he gets good at hiding hollowness behind feigned interest and fake smiles. It's not hard; he's been perfecting them for the better half of his life. No, the only tricky part is his nightly phone call with Kurt, who is far more perceptive than anyone else—or maybe it's just harder to act when the audience cannot see your face. He notices straight away when Blaine sounds off, when his performance starts to flag after a long, exhausting day of pretending. Kurt's voice does that thing where he sounds concerned with an undertone of fear—_he's still afraid of you, Blaine_—and he always makes up ridiculous excuses to keep Blaine on the line longer. The one small blessing is that he doesn't rat Blaine out to his mother. He's not entirely sure who created the diaphanous bubble that surrounds her at the moment, but he knows he cannot be the one to rupture it.

He feels trapped, like everything is imploding inwards in slow-motion and he's just stood there, transfixed by the beauty of the dust particles, unaware that everything is self-destructing besides from a strange sense of claustrophobia. Except part of him does notice the demolition; sometimes the numbness he clings onto isn't enough. Sometimes he locks himself in a bathroom stall halfway through class and allows the dust inside to pour out through his tears, or he waits for his father to be at work and his mom to have popped out to the shop and screams at the ceiling. He feels sorry for his ceiling, to be honest. It's so white and guiltless, yet Blaine still insists on hurling blame at it—blame that he knows belongs to him and him alone.

The thing is, he doesn't understand how he became so trapped in this cycle in the first place. He knows what everyone thinks, he can hear their whispers; they all believe that the break-up destroyed him, that he brought it on himself and then couldn't reap the consequences. But he can't remember it being like that—the numbness started before then, although he can't for the life of him place his finger on an exact date. He doesn't think there is one; he hasn't been damaged by a single emotion or event, but rather the damage has prevented him from dealing with them. In fact, he feels strangely detached from everything that's happened in the past few months, as if he's just an understudy in someone else's life.

He has become used to setbacks while growing up, knows the feeling of devastation when he lets everyone, including himself, down. He used to promise himself that he would become stronger than the thing that set him back, that one day he would laugh when someone mentioned it because he would be so far above it all. The setback would become the one in the wrong, not him. Lately, he's discovered he can no longer do this. He finds it hard to pick himself back up again, not because of the setback like everyone immediately assumes, but because he has no hope of overcoming it. He has no hope in _himself_.

He wishes he was invisible because the pretending is exhausting. He wishes tears were imperceptible so he could cry all day and no one would ask meaningless questions: _Why are you crying? Why are you crying? Why are you crying?_ He can hide himself from them and they don't look too closely, but it's just a lot of effort. Too much effort.

One evening he finds himself sat on his bedroom floor, fingers of his right hand curled around a fresh bottle of sleeping pills, not sure whether they belong to his mother or his father. He opens the cap, ears buzzing at the satisfying 'pop' sound it makes, and tries to tip a pill onto his palm. Except it won't drop down, so he tilts the bottle further, coaxing the little white disc out from where it's caught on the edging. In a sudden surge of muted frustration, he gives the bottle a shake and, before he can stop them, dozens of pills tumble out, most of them missing his palm and ensconcing themselves on the carpet.

"Fuck," He swears under his breath, hand clenching around the practically empty bottle and then, suddenly, he feels his eyes widen, eyelashes curiously wet as they blink in shock. He freezes and then throws the bottle away from him; it doesn't make it very far but the dull thud is enough to make him jump to his feet. He can't do this. Not again.

He sets about replacing the pills in the bottle, fetching the hoover from the closet under the stairs for good measure, and then grabs his phone. His heart is pounding too fast, but he needs the sound to keep communicating to him as he taps the number onto the screen. The call is picked up after two rings.

"Hello?"

"I…don't think…I'm okay." He croaks out and lets Dr Marissa talk at him, allows his words to make sense inside his head and follows his instructions to write down an appointment. He breathes a sigh of relief; Dr Marissa has caught the end of the string and is guiding him out of the wind.

_No,_ he thinks as embers glow inside—not quite a fire yet, but kindling—_you caught the string yourself this time._


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Another chapter already! That's what having time off causes - hopefully I'll have the remaining chapters written over the next two weeks. **

"So, do you have an idea why you started to feel this way again?"

Blaine shrugs, thumb smoothing over the edge of the desk. Dr Marissa keeps his eyes trained on Blaine's face and Blaine wonders whether it's a deliberate move to intimidate him, or whether he just gets intimidated way too easily.

"I s'pose I just started to feel sort of…pointless again." He tries to explain it, but doesn't know how to put it into words. It's so simple, yet so hard to explain.

"Did you start to feel lonely again?"

Blaine wants to query the 'again', the word offending him for some reason he can't place. He doesn't mention it.

"Sort of…But it's not like people have stopped talking to me or anything—it's not like last time."

"Ok," Dr Marissa nods in apparent understanding and writes something down. "And you're still talking to Kurt each night?"

"Yes." Blaine answers truthfully. It's not Kurt's fault that Blaine is clingy and needs more than a tinny voice down a phone line, more than a few guilty glances at a Facebook page that no longer contains him. How many times has he trawled through photos of Kurt with various groups of people at dance practice, or out in some club, or, once, squeezed onto Kurt's couch, one particular guy in too many of them, his hand too often on Kurt's shoulder, Kurt's smile a little too happy for Blaine's liking? God, he's so pathetic.

"And your father…?"

Blaine snorts, glancing away. "Is still my father. I don't know, he stays out of my way mainly, but he's less confrontational about his dislike, I guess."

"Hmm…So it's safe to say you're not really looking forward to Christmas?"

_Thunk_. Dr Marissa hits the nail on the head with such casualness; Blaine's shrugged reply seems inelegant in comparison.

"Is the prospect of spending Christmas with your father making you feel like this? Is it at least a part of the reason?"

"I don't—I mean, I've survived Christmas with him for eighteen years—sixteen actually; he's been away for the last two, supposedly on urgent business."

_Avoiding your gay son can be very pressing during the holiday season,_ he adds inside his head.

"Is Kurt coming home for the holiday?"

"Nope." Blaine says, forces himself to sound nonchalant, but Dr Marissa has put his pen down, fingers clasped over the desk in his battle position.

"Did you think that he would?"

"Maybe. Don't know why though."

"I'm sure he wanted to." Dr Marissa says reasonably. Why can't Blaine be reasonable like that?

"I don't blame him." He feels the need to clarify this; it isn't Kurt's fault that Blaine needs other people's lives to revolve around him.

"Really? I'd be pretty mad at him if I were in your position. He presumably knew you were looking forward to seeing him again?"

"Well, yes, but he has to work. He's already had to drop everything for me once this year."

"He's also dropped you for everything else before."

"He didn't 'drop me'!" Blaine snaps and then realises he's raised his voice and draws his eyebrows together as if they'll pull everything back inside of him. "He just got a life outside of stupid Ohio and I couldn't accept that. It was my problem, not his—it still is."

"I don't think it's unreasonable to expect to see him over the holidays."

"He has to work, it's not—none of this is Kurt's fault, okay?"

Dr Marissa holds his hands up in a gesture of placation and picks up his pen; Blaine wonders why he's rearming when he just surrendered.

"Would you maybe consider a change of scene?" Dr Marissa changes tack. "Do you think your parents would mind going away over Christmas? Or maybe you could go and stay with some other relatives?"

"I'm not sure—"

"—How about your brother? You said he lives in LA, right?"

"Yeah, but…" He trails off, thinks about it for a moment. Would it really be so bad to spend a few days on the west coast with Cooper? "Yeah, maybe."

Dr Marissa smiles. "Ok, well here's what we're going to do. I'll give you some time to think about it and if you decide it's something you want to do, I'll recommend it to your parents. Hard to refuse doctor's orders and all that."

Blaine smiles back hesitantly; it's nice to be conspirators with someone, even if you barely know them.

xxx

The next day, he somehow finds himself sat at the kitchen table, listening anxiously as his mom arranges for him to go and stay with Cooper for a week, her voice genuinely chirpy as she talks to her favourite son. When she says her goodbye twenty minutes later—apparently it had taken some persuading—she gives Blaine a stupid little thumbs-up.

"There you go, sweetie, you're off to sunny California!" She gives him an awkward sideways hug, ignoring the fact that Blaine doesn't return it. He manages a half-smile, though. It might not be Kurt, but it's also not Ohio, and it makes him actually look forward to Christmas for the first time since Kurt gave him the news.

Which is why, when Cooper rings him a week before school ends to tell him that he's managed to get a role in some new indie film and has to go to Canada to film straight away, Blaine feels disappointed. His Christmas plans have fallen through again because, of course, he can't be trusted to stay in LA by himself—he might throw himself off the Hollywood sign or something.

Blaine ignores the, 'I'm really sorry, Squirt. Maybe you could come in the spring instead?", and hangs up without a goodbye. It's so typical of his brother, to put himself first and ignore everything else. _Except,_ Blaine reasons, _you do the exact same thing, expecting Kurt and Cooper to rework their lives to fit you. _

He tells his mom that there's been a change of plan and resolves to stop putting people in awkward positions. At least he has a roof over his head and food in his stomach this Christmas; the least he can do is endure it all without complaint._ It's not the end of the world, Blaine, because the world doesn't revolve around you. _

So why does it feel like he's drifting high above it, looking down on the greeny-blue orb, but unable to make it into the surrounding atmosphere? It's as if each time he tries to float downwards, he's bounced back from some invisible boundary. He's a character in a video game, continually trying to walk back the way he's come even though the screen won't let him. Well, he's not going to do that anymore; from now on he's going to keep moving in the direction he's supposed to.

He does his English homework ahead of schedule and offers to get groceries for his mom, who smiles as she hands him the list like he's just won a Nobel Prize. At least food shopping will distract him for a while; God knows he needs all the distractions he can get.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: This one actually contains a bit of plot movement - enjoy! Reviews will be massively appreciated :D**

Turns out that the supermarket is sort of distracting. He finds it soothing walking down each aisle to find the items on his list, pausing every now and then to decipher his mom's handwriting. Her words are too elaborate, little curls looping over each other unnecessarily; it's as if everything she writes is for a posh wedding invitation.

He sighs and heads to the bakery area, wondering how the decidedly dry-looking loaves are meant to be 'freshly baked' as the smiley man on the sign says. He picks some rolls instead and makes his way to the fruit and veg aisle, mood instantly souring when he catches sight of the 'Californian Kiwis' on the top shelf.

The thing is, he knows Cooper does care; he just likes to care from a distance. It's ironic really that Cooper is the one who impressed on him from an early age how actions speak louder than words (Blaine, honestly, if you'd flicked the broccoli onto the floor instead of just saying you didn't like it, mom wouldn't have made you eat it) and yet whenever Cooper's own actions matter, he merely hides behind his cheesy declarations of affection.

He chooses the greenest bananas he can find and pushes his cart onwards, glancing at his list to see what he needs in terms of dairy produce. When he glances up to find the milk and locks eyes with someone all too familiar, his heart sinks.

The thing is, Burt Hummel has seen him, too, and it would look beyond rude to turn around now. Resigned, he acknowledges Burt's raised hand and heads over to him, trying not to look like he's wheeling his cart to his execution.

"Hey, kiddo. Long time, no see!" Burt pushes the sleeves of his overalls up absentmindedly, leaning over the handles of his own cart.

"Hi, Mr Hummel." Blaine responds dutifully, wondering what excuse he can make to get away quickly.

"I'm trying to find that fancy low-fat yoghurt that Carol likes." Burt rolls his eyes, gesturing to the rows of products.

"The Greek one?" Blaine asks, handing the pot to Burt who looks like water was just turned into wine under his nose.

"How'd you know that?"

"Um, just a guess." _It's Kurt's favourite—he introduced Carol to it._

"Wow. I'm impressed, kid."

Blaine half-smiles, pretends the compliment is genuine. Burt's eyes narrow just slightly and Blaine holds his breath as he forces his mouth to widen. He's perfected the art of drowning noiselessly, knows how to prevent his skin becoming translucent through its thinness, but he's worried that Burt can actually see the air leaving his lungs. He doesn't want anyone else to have to save him simply because the unending stream of bubbles rippled the surface.

"What're you up to for Christmas, then?" Burt asks, bending over to pick up some cheese that Blaine is pretty certain he hadn't intended to get until five seconds ago.

"Oh, um, just…family stuff. Y'know, the usual."

"I thought your old man normally goes away at Christmas?"

Blaine mentally curses Burt's impeccable memory.

"He's staying at home this year." He tries to say it like he's a happy son, but Burt's raised eyebrow tells him he has failed. Plus, the expression is so very Kurt-like that it makes Blaine's stomach jump up to hit the lump already starting to form in his throat. He keeps stuttering around it anyway. "I, uh, I heard you're off to— New York?"

"Yeah, unfortunately." Burt sighs, placing the cheese in his cart and rubbing a hand over his face. He must then see the look on Blaine's face because he hurries to clarify, "No, no, don't get me wrong—I'm thrilled I'm seeing Kurt. I'd just hoped he'd be able to come back here to see Carol and Finn as well."

_You and me both,_ Blaine thinks, grabbing some yoghurt of his own to give his hands something to do.

"He's gutted he won't get to see you, kid." Burt adds and Blaine isn't sure whether his airway has been opened up or closed off by the comment. Is he choking on air or water?

"Oh, well, I—um, enjoy your trip anyway and—and Merry Christmas!" He stammers, wheeling the cart off down the aisle, forcing the tears back until he's out of Burt's bewildered sight. He feels the hot, prickly sensation of shame crawl up his spine, cursing himself for acting like such a lunatic in front of Mr Hummel. _Why do you always run away, Blaine? You're such a coward._

He abandons the trolley in the next aisle along and flees the store before he can bump into anyone else. When he gets home, his mother doesn't even question where her groceries went.

xxx

Dinner is particularly bad this evening, his father muttering some comment about the leftovers they're having and his mom apologising for not having been shopping yet. None of them mention the fact that it's Blaine's fault even though they're all perfectly aware of it. His father just stares at his plate as he mimics Blaine's habit of pushing food around aimlessly. It's probably the only thing they've ever had in common.

His mom is half way through a pointless story about an art exhibition in Cleveland when the doorbell rings. She clears her throat, clearly surprised, and gets up to answer it. Blaine panics slightly as he's left alone with his father—whose interest in his day-old potatoes has increased tenfold—until he recognises the voice at the door. Then he panics further, sliding off his chair to join his mother in the hallway.

"Ah, there you are, kiddo," Burt Hummel says, offering Blaine a grin. "We were just talking about you."

_I know you were_, Blaine thinks, y_ou've come to tell my mom what a train wreck I am and I wish you wouldn't._

"You were saying, Mr Hummel?" His mother looks like a rabbit caught in headlights, or maybe a frog by the way her eyes are bugging out in a forced show of politeness.

"I was just wonderin' what Blaine was planning to do for the holidays?"

Blaine frowns in confusion as his mother stiffens. Mr Hummel knows he's staying at home; he'd asked Blaine not three hours earlier.

"We're just having a quiet family Christmas at home."

Blaine can't hold back the amused smile at his mom's words. _Family Christmas_ are two words he never thought he'd hear in connection with his parents. He's pretty sure Burt picks up on his amusement, but thankfully he doesn't comment.

"Hmm, well, I don't want to intrude or anything like that," He pauses and all Blaine can think is _please, intrude away_. "But I'm takin' a trip to New York to see Kurt and I have a spare ticket if Blaine is interested."

Blaine freezes and his mom stiffens impossibly further. "Oh, well, I—it's a very kind offer, Mr Hummel, but I'm not sure—"

"Yes, please," Blaine cuts her off, a dangerous hope fluttering inside him. "If Kurt doesn't mind of course."

"I'm keeping it a surprise for him—don't worry I won't wrap you up with a bow or anything."

It's a light-hearted comment, but the information contained in it slams a lid on the tiny jar of hope that was just beginning to tip over.

"Oh, no, I don't want to….intrude." He mimics Burt's own phrasing, ducking his head in case any stray tears attempt to betray him for the second time that day. "I'm sure Kurt is looking forward to seeing you—"

"—And he'll still get to see me, just with the added bonus of seeing you as well."

Blaine huffs out a laugh again. He's about as far from a 'bonus' as Kurt can get.

"Honestly, kid, he'll be thrilled to see you. You're all he talks about—even now." Burt adds pointedly when Blaine goes to protest. "And I wouldn't have bought you an extra ticket this afternoon unless I was certain. I know my son."

"I…don't know if this is a good idea." His mother pipes up and Blaine's not sure whether he's glad or annoyed at her interruption.

"Well, if Blaine would like to, I'm happy to discuss it with that therapist guy he's seeing. I just thought a change a scene might do us both some good, huh, Blaine?"

He wants to say yes so badly, but he'd rather spend a hundred Christmases at home than make Kurt feel uncomfortable for one of them.

"He's been so worried about you." Burt says in a quieter tone, ducking his head to try and catch Blaine's gaze. "It would honestly make his Christmas if he got to spend it with you, knowing you're ok."

"I don't…"

"No pressure; if you don't want to, that's fine. Just don't say no on Kurt's account 'cause trust me you won't be doing him any favours."

"Ok," Blaine says, drawing the word out as his brain catches up with it. "Ok, I'll come."

"Awesome!" Burt does a stupid little punch in the air and Blaine can't help but return his grin; it's infectious. And he's _going to see Kurt_.

"Well I should probably talk it through with Dr Marissa, Blaine. I know you were going to stay with Cooper, but family is a little different and you'll need to make sure you take all your medication with you, and have an emergency contact ready..."

He knows his mother is just being practical, caring about Blaine in her own weird way, but in this moment, he feels angry at her for marring the experience before it's even started.

"Mom. It'll be fine." He says shortly and Burt clears his throat.

"No, you're entirely right, Mrs Anderson. Have a chat with Blaine's doctor and see what he thinks. It's just an idea."

"I'd really like to go." Blaine says, feeling like the whole thing is slipping through his fingers before it's even touched his palm.

His mom looks at him—really looks at him for the first time since he was in the hospital—and nods. "Ok," She says, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning back to Burt. "I'll double check with Dr Marissa and if he's fine with it, I don't see why Blaine can't go to New York for a couple of days. As long as he's back well before New Year." She adds, and Blaine nods in agreement; as long as he gets to see Kurt, he doesn't care about the terms.

A tiny voice in the back of his head wonders whether balloons are meant to travel in planes, whether the change in pressure will be too much for him, but he squashes it into a ball and locks it away. He's going to see Kurt and that's all that matters.


	23. Chapter 23

He feels sick with nerves on the flight to New York which is ridiculous because he's only going to see Kurt for God's sake—Kurt who he feels more comfortable with than anyone else on the planet. Except it could never be 'only' Kurt because Kurt is so much more than that; Kurt is everything.

He declines the food pack that the air hostess tries to shove under his nose, shakes his head when Burt offers him some of his own, and spends the rest of the journey staring out of the window. He doesn't know if he likes the feeling of being suspended in so much blueness, the clouds a blanket of white below. He's never been scared of heights or air travel, but if he focusses too hard on that stomach-swooping feeling of elevation it becomes dangerously similar to the drifting sensation he gets when his feet are firmly planted on the ground. He watches the ever-switching horizon instead, gaze flicking every now and then to the little map on the seat in front of him, watching the time countdown to landing. The little numbers move tantalisingly slow at first, but as they get closer to New York, they speed up and suddenly Blaine has the panicky urge to stop them.

Breathing as deeply as his lungs allow, he climbs over Burt and queues up for the tiny restroom, cursing the fact that everyone uses it before they land. It doesn't help that the Christmas Eve flight is packed, everyone wanting to get home to friends and family at the last minute. He's never been away for Christmas before and he feels like travelling should somehow undermine the holiday, make it less special, but it's the first Christmas since he was six (and still believed in Santa Claus) that he's looking forward to. Of course, it's also the first Christmas that's made him sickeningly nervous, but Blaine figures it's still better than being stuck in his too-big house with his father's silent opinions.

When it's finally his turn in the restroom, he locks the door, then unlocks it and relocks it again, just to make sure. He stares at his reflection in the little mirror, leaning against the sink as the plane jolts, and takes in his palled complexion, the dark circles smeared under his eyes. He wishes he could be more attractive, just for a day, but this will have to do; _he_ will have to do.

He uses the toilet and then splashes a bit of water on his face, ignoring the knock on the door; there are too many people for the number of toilets on board and they'll just have to be patient. The lock on the door jams for a moment when he tries to open it and he feels that exhilarating little rush of W_hat if I get trapped in here? What am I going to do?_ It opens on the second attempt, though, and he ignores the fed-up glares of the people waiting, heading back to his seat without meeting their eyes. He's strangely disappointed that he didn't get stuck in there, although he doesn't know why; it would've been really embarrassing.

"Alright, buddy?" Burt asks, looking up from his football magazine as Blaine manages to climb back over his legs.

_No, this was a bad idea and I can't believe I let you talk me into this. _

"Yeah, just tired of sitting down." He answers, turning his attention back to the window. Burt seems to buy it, patting Blaine's leg once before returning to his reading.

Ten minutes later, the captain tells them to prepare for landing and Blaine's stomach jolts unpleasantly as the usual spiel starts about seats being upright and placing hand luggage in the overhead lockers. He double-checks that his seat can't be made any straighter and wonders why his insides feel horizontal. It's like he was lying down and left his innards behind when he sat up, although he hasn't reclined the chair at any point during the flight.

Landing and disembarking goes by in a hazy blur, Burt reminding him to get his rucksack from the overhead locker and leading him towards baggage reclaim. He has only brought hand luggage for the two-night stay, but Burt was forced to take a suitcase in order to bring Kurt some more clothes from home. Blaine offers to carry it to the taxi for him and discovers pretty quickly that Kurt has either requested the delivery of his favourite lace-up, weighted boots, or Burt decided to bring several rocks with him. He suspects the former and for some reason the knowledge that he's carrying Kurt's stuff makes him feel like he's smuggled something all the way from Lima. The NYPD officers stationed near the main doors barely look at him, but it feels like their eyes are boring through the fabric of the suitcase and he wants to drop it, admit that they're not his with his hands in the air.

He barely registers the huge buildings flashing past as the taxi speeds them to Kurt's apartment. He's been to New York several times and whilst the awe at such a magnificent skyline will never leave him, it feels a lot more fragile than the last time he visited. It also seems to take a ridiculously small amount of time to fight through the traffic and get to Bushwick. Blaine's still mentally preparing himself, wondering what the hell he's going to say. Is he meant to just pop out from behind Burt, shouting 'surprise!' at the top of his voice? Is he meant to hide in the stairwell until they've had time to catch up? Is he meant to just walk in and see how long it takes for Kurt to realise? All three options seem absurd, but then his presence in this city, after everything that's happened, _is_ absurd. He shouldn't be here.

Burt seems to notice his anxiousness because he starts talking about some pizza place down the street that's meant to be amazing, presumably attempting to distract him. It doesn't work, but Blaine appreciates the effort.

He takes the offending suitcase once more and lugs it up the stairs behind Burt, taking in the random graffiti on the walls. It's definitely not the nicest neighbourhood there is, but Kurt and Rachel are students so he supposes it's quite a good place for their budget.

When Burt raps on the door, eyebrows raised in anticipation, Blaine stops breathing. _Kurt _is on the other side of that door; there are literally only a few metres between them. It seems to take forever for the door to slide open, and when it finally does, it feels a lot like his senses are being overloaded. The first thing he notices is the smell of freshly-baked goodies, and Christmas excitement, and something so very Kurt-like. He barely has time to register his chest tightening and then Kurt is there, standing in front of him in an apron Blaine recognises from past baking sessions, smile crinkling his face as he sees his dad.

Then, torturously slowly, Kurt's eyes flicker from Burt's face to his lack of suitcase to Blaine who is stood slightly behind him, clutching it like a lifeline.

"Blaine?"

It's the first word out of his mouth and Blaine has a split second to work out whether he's good-surprised or bad-surprised before he's speaking again.

"I—Dad? You didn't tell me Blaine was coming?"

"Yeah, well, I wanted it to be a—"

"—But I didn't realise. I didn't know he'd be here and now—"

"Kurt, relax! I'm sure you can bake some more cookies or whatever." Burt's still grinning at what he perceives to be Kurt's melodrama, but Blaine's starting to panic. Something isn't right.

"No, you don't understand—"

"Kurt? Is it your dad?" The voice comes from somewhere behind Kurt and it fizzles through Blaine's brain, forcing him to put two and two together.

Kurt looks pained as he slides the door the whole way open and they all turn to look at the man—the tall, attractive, _blond_ man—stood in the kitchen area, holding a tray of cookies and looking slightly confused. Blaine knows without question it's the guy he heard on the phone; the British inflection is unmistakable.

It doesn't exactly feel like having the carpet ripped out from under his feet—it's more like the whole world falling away, useless bits of scenery collapsing during a low-budget community theatre production, and leaving him stood on a tiny bit of floor, about to fall off at any second but unable to move. The worst part is that Kurt suddenly can't meet his gaze and that tells Blaine all he needs to know.

_You're not wanted here._

**A/N: Yes, I am that evil and, yes, I apparently enjoy making Blaine suffer. Thoughts? **


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Hi, have some more angst...**

To say things are awkward as Burt ushers them inside the apartment and into the main living area is understatement of the year. Kurt is still looking anywhere but at Blaine, mainly at British-guy to be honest, and Blaine wishes he'd never got on that plane. The thing is, now that he's here, there's no way he can leave without creating a scene and he doesn't want to ruin Kurt's Christmas any more than he already has.

Burt gives him a look and he realises he's still clutching the suitcase; he unclenches his fingers and it thumps onto the floor. The noise snaps Kurt out of his stupor and he rushes about introducing everyone and making drinks. Apparently British-guy is called Adam and he goes to NYADA—he sounds way too accomplished for Blaine's liking, especially when Kurt mentions that they're in a singing group together. Glee club was always Kurt's thing with Blaine and now…well, now it's not anymore.

He nods along and offers a polite "nice to meet you", shaking the strong hand that Adam extends. The irony of the words make him want to curl up and die, but he can't be that inconvenience, not during the holidays, so he does the only thing he can do: he plays his part.

He helps Kurt put the last few decorations on the tree but doesn't attempt to flirtatiously reach across him, or wrap tinsel around him; he watches some football documentary next to Burt on the couch, answering Burt's comments and pretending that Kurt and Adam aren't sat behind them discussing something else; he declines Kurt's offer to go to the store for extra mince pies, allowing Kurt and Adam to have some alone time; he showers and changes for dinner, but he doesn't put his stuff in Kurt's room, not even temporarily, tucking his rucksack next to the couch; he makes an effort to look put together with his outfit, but he doesn't wear the bowtie that Kurt bought him for Christmas last year, even though he picked it out specially.

He doesn't just arrange his facial expression, putting a mask in place. No, he creates an entire layer underneath his skin, lining his chest and pushing the despondency back just enough that no one suspects. Or at least he hopes no one does. When the four of them are seated around the table, passing round bowls of food, he thinks he may have succeeded in convincing the audience.

Dinner is horrific, but he manages. Kurt tells his dad about the stuff he's been up to, Burt tells them about business at the shop and Carole's new obsession with scented candles, Adam talks about his own family in the UK. To be honest, Kurt couldn't have found a more perfect boyfriend. Plus, logically, Blaine knows they must be serious if Kurt invited him round on Christmas Eve.

God, they were probably sleeping together already and here Blaine was clinging on. _Just loosen your grip and let go of the rock already; fall. No, you can't think like that anymore, stop it! _

He takes a careful sip of his drink, willing his stomach to stop churning as he keeps his eyes on the table. It's funny because he had believed all that crap Kurt had spouted about giving him time to heal and waiting with outstretched arms in the distance. Turns out, Kurt had just strategically placed a cardboard cut-out of himself so Blaine would _think_ he was waiting, all the while floating out of Blaine's grasp to bigger, better things. He feels like the world's biggest idiot.

"So, Blaine, how is Glee going? Bet it's much nicer without Rachel seizing every solo!"

Blaine's heart sinks as everyone looks at him; he's got away so far with saying the bare minimum, but he can't not answer Kurt's question.

"Oh…It's ok, I think. Marley gets quite a few solos instead."

"Marley? Is she one of the new people?" Kurt looks interested, but now Blaine can see the fake edge to the whole thing.

"Yeah, she's actually really lovely."

"Aw that's nice." Adam says and it sounds so strange in his British accent, almost insincere, although Blaine is probably just being paranoid. He fights to keep his thoughts off his face and it partly works as Kurt remains oblivious, but Burt is side-eyeing him. Stupid, perceptive Burt.

"'Course, it's an exciting time of year for you, Buddy. All your college applications in?" Burt asks through a mouthful of cabbage, and Blaine doesn't know whether this is a welcome change of topic or a trap.

"Um, yeah, they are now."

"Big Apple here you come, huh?"

"I've actually only applied to NYADA here." He replies honestly. "I mean, I sent that one off months ago and I haven't heard anything back—I probably won't get in anyway, but I just thought it—I'll probably stay in state." He finishes lamely, physically clamping his mouth shut before he can say the 'sorry' that is burning on his tongue. He can't quite explain why the fact that he applied to college in New York—and NYADA of all places—makes him want to drop to his knees and beg for Kurt's forgiveness, but it does. He feels like he's somehow doing Kurt yet another wrong by even contemplating an intrusion into the world he's built up here.

_A world away from you_, his brain decides to remind him and his eyes involuntarily flick up to Adam who is looking at him like he's a crazy person. To be fair, Adam has a point since he can barely hold his fork properly right now.

"What?" Burt asks, and Blaine notices that Kurt hasn't commented, but he doesn't dare look to see his reaction. "I thought you were definitely coming to college here?"

"I just think staying in Ohio would be…better." He finishes lamely, wishing the conversation hadn't been brought round to him in the first place.

"Hmm." Burt says, and suddenly Blaine can't look _him_ in the eye either. "Well, guess we'll have to get you into NYADA then, won't we?"

Blaine smiles, forcing the mask into place, and continues eating. Thankfully, Adam starts talking about his singing group again and the spotlight shifts off him. He feels so sick but he eats everything on his plate anyway, not wanting to appear ungrateful. When dinner finally finishes, they all take their plates over to the sink and create a pile of dishes.

"Kurt, why don't you and Blaine pick a movie while Adam and I wash up?" Burt says, tone curiously firm.

"That's ok, dad, I'll do them later. We can all pick the movie."

As Blaine follows Burt over to the chairs, he feels strangely like he did when no one would pick him for their team in gym class. _No one wants you here._

Burt picks some inoffensive action movie (_I can't deal with any of that singing stuff tonight, Kurt_) and Blaine realises with horror that he can't go to bed until everyone else does as he's sleeping on the couch—the same couch that Kurt and Adam are currently sharing.

Blaine fixes his eyes unseeingly on the screen and refuses to look at them cuddling. He practically shivers with the desire for someone to snuggle around him, too, but he knows he lost that privilege the second he cheated. He feels so small and stupid right now—pointless, really—as he awkwardly wraps his arms around himself and tries to ignore Burt's eyes on his face from where he's sat in the chair next to him. He doesn't want anyone's pity.

When the movie finishes, after an hour and a half of what can only be described as torture, Kurt flicks the lights on and Blaine blinks in the sudden brightness, eyes suddenly even more tired.

"Well, you'd better show Adam out before we all hit the sack." Burt says somewhat pointedly and Blaine's ears prick up despite himself at the news that Adam won't be staying over. He doesn't miss the glare Kurt shoots his dad though; he feels it like it's directed at him.

Once Adam has left, Kurt makes up the bed for him. He is perfectly nice, chatters away about mundane stuff, but Blaine still can't meet his gaze for fear that all the apologies he's holding back will trip from his mouth.

"Kurt, can I just have a word in here for a second…about, um, that last minute thing…for Carole…?" Burt calls from the cordoned-off area of Kurt's room and it's so obviously an excuse, it's almost laughable. Burt wouldn't be organising Carole's present on Christmas Eve when they aren't even in the same state.

Kurt rolls his eyes and slips behind the curtains. At first, all Blaine can hear are indistinct whispers and he tries hard not to eavesdrop. Seconds later, though, there's no mistaking Kurt's words, his voice forceful despite the lowered volume.

"I just don't understand why you wouldn't tell me…"

"Because it was meant to be a surprise. I didn't know your _friend_ would be here."

"Well he wouldn't have been if you'd just told me! And I'm perfectly within my rights to hang out with who I like."

"Geez, Kurt, didn't you see him all evening—he looks like a lost puppy that's been kicked. Repeatedly. By you."

So there it is. Burt's pity, just like Blaine knew it would be.

"That's not fair!" Kurt sounds really annoyed now. "I've been trying really hard here. And in case you've forgotten, I'm not the one who destroyed our relationship in the first place. _He_ cheated!"

Blaine's stomach drops to the apartment below and he's intensely grateful as he feels the familiar numbness creeping in.

When Burt awkwardly reappears a moment later, Kurt noticeably not in tow, he nods at Blaine sympathetically and wishes him goodnight before using the bathroom and heading into Rachel's room to sleep. Blaine sits on the couch, knees hugged against his chest and staring into space until he hears Burt get into bed, and then goes through the motions of brushing his teeth and using the toilet, climbing into his own makeshift bed.

He just about fits because he's so weirdly short and he tugs the blanket up over his face, hiding from the cold air of the loft. He doesn't feel hidden enough from anything, though. Not from the chill, or Kurt's words, or his own piled up mistakes; the numbness might have learnt to control the pain, but it can't stop the guilt gnawing at his insides. He feels the burn of hot, guilty tears against his too-cold skin and allows his face to become claustrophobically stuck against the inside of the blanket, wonders how easy it would be to just suffocate here. Not easy enough, probably.

**A/N: Reviews make me smile :)**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: So this isn't a full chapter as such; it's more of a Kurt-interlude. I feel like he probably got somewhat villainised in the last chapter and in some ways, I identify with Kurt more than Blaine so I can understand some of his less appealing traits. I think it's only fair that Kurt gets to show his perspective on everything too. Hope you enjoy anyway!**

Kurt closes his eyes, but they flap open of their own accord and force him to confront the dark room around him. He never thinks of it as his room; despite having lived here for months, he still feels like a guest. It doesn't feel like someone else's space per se, it's more like a hotel room, full of his belongings but not properly and permanently _his_.

It is particularly lacking in comfort tonight and he feels even more like a passing lodger than usual. He hasn't felt like himself all evening to be honest, not since Blaine showed up out of nowhere—except it wasn't out of nowhere because his dad had brought him as an intended surprise. Boy, was Kurt surprised.

The thing is, he knows he has been a complete jerk all evening—he _knows_ that—but he really hates surprises. He likes to have complete control over every aspect of his life and whenever someone takes him by surprise, they snatch his precious control and hold it just out of his reach. Blaine always makes him feel a little like that, simply because he makes Kurt feel _so much_, and it's somewhere between exhilarating and absolutely terrifying. That out-of-control feeling was amplified to scorching, uncomfortable proportions when Blaine had turned up with his father, completely and utterly uninvited and un-agreed upon.

And truth be told, whenever he spends time with Adam, no matter how innocent their interactions, it always feels horribly like betrayal; Blaine arriving like he did feels a lot like being caught in the act. Which is so, so stupid because he and Blaine aren't together, and he and Adam are basically just friends who flirt a bit, and even if they were more, he's not breaking any rules. Blaine is the one who cheated, not Kurt.

Right now, though, it's not the technical specifics that he's worried about. Really, underneath his anger at the injustice of it all, his frustration at his own feelings—and Blaine's—really, he's just worried that he unwittingly broke Blaine's heart. Or, worse, that a part of him sort of meant to break it a little, needed to hurt someone the way he himself had been hurt. He's not cruel, but he is wounded and he knows from experience that he's an expert at lashing out just to push people away a bit, to give him some breathing room.

But Blaine—sweet, precious, _kind_ Blaine—had flown all this way to see Kurt, had brought him painstakingly-wrapped presents in a cute little gift bag, his smile so hesitant but so genuine when Kurt had first slid open the door, and Kurt might as well have slammed it in his face. He may have meant no harm in pushing Blaine away a bit, but in the midst of his panicked self-preservation he had forgotten how fragile Blaine is. Kurt may well have just shoved him to the floor and inadvertently trampled all over him; the thought makes him feel physically sick.

His ears strain, but he can't make out any sounds of discomfort coming from Blaine. He sort of wishes he could because he needs that reassurance that Blaine is there, that he's alive and well and capable of feeling emotion. The loft is completely silent save for his father's muffled snores and Kurt is going to implode. Sighing, he slides his legs out of bed and ducks through his curtain. He needs to fix this.

**A/N:** **Do you possibly hate Kurt less now? Either way, it's back to Blaine (and a full-length chapter) next time...**


	26. Chapter 26

Blaine tugs the blanket up even higher and wonders how his life manages to fall apart over and over again. Each time he starts to rebuild it, the neatly stacked bricks turn into paper and swish to the ground on the next gust of wind. It doesn't even take much—a breeze is enough to destroy the balance—and he yet he continues to pretend that _this_ is the time he'll somehow turn it into bricks and mortar. The hardest part is that he's always just starting to appreciate the delicate beauty of the paper formation, the visual aesthetic of it, right before it crashes down again, dragging him with it. Then, he lies right back where he started, ensconced in mocking whiteness.

He's fed up of expending energy on something so futile. This time, he had even managed to convince himself that Kurt wanted him back, that somehow, despite it all, Kurt needed him in the same way he needs Kurt. And he tries to be mad at Kurt, he really does, but Blaine's a shoddy piece of paper-mâché and that isn't Kurt's fault.

Besides, anger is closely linked to regret and he refuses to regret believing what he did. He's glad that the delusion was a part of him for a while, that he pursued it even if it was transient—because it was the only light at the end of the tunnel for such a long time when he desperately needed some. He doesn't care if it was a torch giving out the illusion of daylight—a torch that got switched off the second he reached it—what matters is that it got him through a section of tunnel that he wouldn't have otherwise. He's so, so grateful for that; without it, he would still be sat five-hundred metres back on the tunnel floor.

It is laughable that he pretended to understand Dr Marissa's instructions, though. He convinced himself that he was no longer using Kurt as his lynchpin, but now that everything has come unpegged, it's abundantly clear that he made that up too. God, he's good at making stuff up.

But he can't hide from reality forever. He's a bad person who clings too tightly and hurts the people he loves—that's always going come out in the end. It's evidenced in his decision to encroach on Kurt's Christmas, in his unjustified jealousy at Adam and his heart-eyes, in his stupid self-pity when all Kurt did was tell his dad the truth. Kurt has no obligation to so much as look at Blaine and yet he did—he always did. He had even flown back to Ohio because Blaine is so fantastic at fucking up other people's lives in tandem with his own.

He did it again tonight. If he hadn't shown up uninvited, Kurt and Adam would have had a wonderful evening with Burt, all getting to know each other and bonding over the holidays. Why had Blaine felt entitled to come along and mar it all? Apparently he's not content to ruin Kurt's past; he wants to derail his attempts to move forwards, too. He's like Kurt's shadow—always, unshakeably there, but too insubstantial to get rid of.

The pillow is cold from tears he didn't know he was still shedding as he realises that he's going to have to go back to Ohio and carry on without Kurt. What will he do without his universal panacea, connecting his guts to the world around him? Surely he will float away, up and up into nothingness; that used to be what he wanted, why he took those damn sleeping pills in the first place, but now—now he doesn't know anymore. He just wants to stop being in this state, caught between flying and falling. It's not even tearing him apart, it's just pulling his muscles over and over again, never giving them time to heal properly in between.

He doesn't hear anyone approach, his own heartbeat too annoyingly loud in his ears, until the blanket is peeled back just slightly from his face so that his eyes are visible over the top.

"Blaine?" Kurt's voice sounds worried and Blaine adds it to the list of things to feel guilty about. There aren't enough hours in a lifetime to make up for everything on that list. "Are you….Don't cry, please…"

The thing is, Blaine's still not properly aware that he's crying. He doesn't even feel like crying, but apparently his body acts without his permission nowadays. He wonders what he_ is_ in control of; it feels terrifyingly like nothing.

"Blaine, please…" Kurt sounds so _scared _again, but he doesn't seem to understand that Blaine can't control the moisture filtering from his stupid eyes. He shuts them, tries hard to make it stop; he doesn't want Kurt to be scared. It's not Kurt's fault that Blaine invested so much in their relationship, even though, logically, he knew that Kurt could never take him back. Even without the whole cheating thing, he's broken beyond repair and there is no reason Kurt would want anything to do with that.

Kurt sighs and reaches out to run his thumb under Blaine's eyes, catching the liquid and letting it sink into his own skin. He holds his hand there on Blaine's cheek—not stroking, just lightly touching—and Blaine wonders if he's not the only one drifting. Maybe they're anchored to each other, floating off into the darkness intertwined. Or, he thinks with a jolt, maybe Kurt's only being tugged along by Blaine, desperately trying to rid himself of the massless weight, but unable to twist free of Blaine's ensnaring string.

The thought is jarring and he pulls away, leaving Kurt's hand to flop uselessly onto the couch.

"I didn't mean it."

Blaine refuses to look into Kurt's eyes as he speaks; he doesn't want to see the lie etched on his beautiful features.

"I swear I didn't mean any of it. I was just—scared." Kurt's hand drifts back to rest on Blaine's covered arm and suddenly it feels too warm in the cold apartment. Kurt is always warm; he's fire.

"I am glad you came, you know," Kurt tries again when he gets no response, his fingers tracing absent patterns on Blaine's arm and Blaine finds himself caught between the automatic comfort that Kurt touching him provides and the need to make it stop because it's painful—for both of them if Kurt's expression is anything to go by.

"You don't need to do this." Blaine wishes he could say it louder, but it's the best he can do.

Kurt's hand pauses. "Do what?"

"The whole obligated-comfort thing. You can go back to bed—I promise not to throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge while you're sleeping." It comes out harsher than he'd intended and Kurt flinches, eyes going wide as he leans back on his knees.

"I—I didn't—_Blaine_—"

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I just—you can go back to bed." He repeats, pulls the blanket back over his eyes again. Maybe it comes across as a childish gesture, but he can't look at Kurt's face anymore and, unless his vision is impaired, his eyes drift back to it of their own accord.

There's a pause and then he hears Kurt stand up, his chest simultaneously easing and clenching in some sort of disorientated panic. But then something is pushing against his legs, they're moved sideways before he can tell his muscles to resist, and Kurt is—he's trying to lie down on the couch as well. After a moment of shuffling, Blaine being jostled without being able to see what's going on, Kurt huffs out a laugh.

"Ok, you're going to have to budge over 'cause my butt is much too big to fit on this thing otherwise…"

"Your butt is perfect." It comes out muffled as he half-heartedly shuffles sideways and he prays that Kurt didn't decipher it, biting his lip to stop anything else coming out.

"Thank you," Kurt says and Blaine's stomach plummets. "So is yours."

It's so ridiculous—impossibly ridiculous, really—and a sob escapes him. He can't seem to stop it then, the tears disintegrate into noisy choking sounds and he lets them because, well, he has no dignity left anyway.

There's more movement next to him and then Kurt's arm is somehow under the blanket, sliding very carefully over Blaine's stomach.

Blaine's sobs come harder. "D-don't—please don't do th-that…"

Kurt's arm retreats instantly and Blaine's stomach feels empty without the weight on top of it.

"S-sorry, just it'll be h-harder when—and you have a b-boyfr—" He cuts himself off; he's so pathetic he can't even say it out loud.

Kurt pulls the blanket back from Blaine's face again. "What did you just say?"

Blaine can't speak. Everything aches and he's going to pass out in a minute.

"Blaine? Did you—oh god, did you think Adam and I…?"

He will not hope. He will _not_. That's what got him into this whole mess.

"Adam and I are just friends—that's it."

The words should soothe, but they don't. He knows Kurt too well; he knows that Kurt is the sort of person who would lie to save him.

"Then why was he here to meet your dad on Christmas Eve? Why were you cuddling on the couch like that?" It shouldn't be accusatory, but it is. At least the tears have subsided a bit.

"We weren't….I mean, sure, we shared the couch, but there was no cuddling going on…?" Kurt sounds genuinely confused and Blaine starts to doubt himself. Hadn't they been wrapped around one another all through the movie, or had he made that up too? In fairness, he had mainly been focussing on anything other than—oh. Apparently his brain had seen what it had expected to see.

He feels incredibly stupid then. He basically just wrongly accused Kurt of something that was none of his business in the first place.

"Sorry." He says and he means it, but authenticity has sort of lost its meaning over the past few months. He asks himself over and over why he insists on ensnaring Kurt in his damn train wreck, but really he knows why; he's too weak to resist, even if it means hurting the person he ought to protect above all else.

What he needs is for Kurt to make the move, give him the cold shoulder and the even colder truths, and then discard him on the scrapheap once and for all. Kurt is too inherently nice for that; maybe benevolence is the greatest weakness of all.

"Don't be." Kurt replies, nestling back against Blaine and it should feel claustrophobic, but it doesn't. There's something incongruously freeing about being squashed onto a couch, or maybe it's just because he can't see Kurt's face. "I still sat next to him and encouraged the heart-eyes a bit. I didn't mean to, I was just…scared."

"It's fine, you don't have to explain yourself to me; we're not together." He's got used to the words, said them enough times inside his head, but saying them out loud forces him to hold back a shiver.

"And that's exactly why I _do_ have to explain myself."

Blaine groans. "God, you sound like my therapist."

"Sorry," Kurt laughs quietly, wriggles to make himself more comfortable. "I'll take it as a compliment." He shuffles some more, his hand ghosting over Blaine's side. "It wasn't your fault we broke up, you know."

"Oh, sorry, you're so right, it wasn't me who slept with someone else and destroyed your trust. Nope, that wasn't my fault at all."

"I didn't mean—look, it was partly your fault, but it was mine too, okay? Can you look at me for a second?"

Blaine shakes his head, but then Kurt pleads and _goddamnit_ he can't resist that.

"Thank you," Kurt says when Blaine's eyes are visible again. "Look, I'm not going to deny that you hurt me because you did. But I wasn't exactly being a good boyfriend either."

"I don't recall you sleeping around." Blaine can't help interrupting and feels sadistically satisfied when Kurt flinches.

"You didn't _sleep around_—you just made a mistake that one time and—and took advantage of some attention. That's what happened, right?"

"No," Blaine counters, sitting up so that the blanket falls away completely. He's higher than Kurt now, but he feels about a tenth of his size. "I couldn't handle not speaking to you all the time because I'm needy as fuck and decided to get some from the first guy who looked in my direction."

"Stop talking about yourself like that. And we've been through this before; you're not needy." Kurt's teeth are clenched and his head has ducked down, like he's caught between battle and defeat.

Blaine sighs; this is exhausting because Kurt doesn't seem able to understand without his stupid pity clouding the view. "What part of '_I slept with someone else'_ do you not understand?"

He realises that Kurt's crying then and he feels like even more of a jerk but he's also sort of hoping that Kurt has finally got the message and will shove Blaine aside like he's needed to for a very long time. _Like everyone does eventually_, he thinks as he pictures the look on his father's face when he came out.

There's a horrible silence broken only by Kurt's quiet sniffles and then he seems to recollect himself.

"You slept with someone else and that's disgusting and wrong and, God, it makes me feel _sick_, but you didn't do it to hurt me. You weren't deliberately trying to break us up, not really. I was already walking out the door and you just slammed it in my face. And I was too proud, or maybe too stupid, to stand there and stare at a closed door. So I kept on walking and I didn't look behind to make sure you were okay. I should have waited until I understood, or at least knocked to let you know I was there, but I didn't. And that makes me feel sick, too. I was so self-absorbed that I forgot I wasn't the only one staring at a closed door; you were too. Except you couldn't walk away like I did."

Blaine thinks about this and it sort of makes sense, but it also makes his head ache. It feels too much like Kurt is blaming himself for Blaine's own feebleness.

"I chose to keep staring at that door, though, didn't I?" He counters, trying to assuage Kurt's guilt.

"But that's just it—you were still fighting for us and I just walked away." Kurt sits up so that they're level again.

"This is a beautiful analogy and all, but it doesn't change the fact that I cheated on you instead of discussing my feelings like a sane person."

"You are sane." Kurt corrects automatically and it makes Blaine want to scream. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Enjoy it?"

"Did you enjoy sleeping with someone else?" Kurt is holding his gaze quite steadily now and it's unnerving.

"What—_No._ It was—it was the worst thing I've ever done—worse than getting beaten up at a stupid school dance. I _hated _it. I didn't even—I couldn't—" The numbness is fading dizzyingly fast, an onslaught of feelings taking its place. It feels a lot like he has internal whiplash.

"Shhh," Kurt soothes, his hand finding Blaine's arm again. "It's okay, I just wanted to hear you say it. And that's why I forgave you ages ago, by the way. You technically cheated on me, but you didn't really. Well, you didn't _emotionally_ cheat on me anyway."

Blaine literally cannot believe he's hearing this; maybe he is the sane one on this couch after all. "Cheating doesn't have technicalities, Kurt."

"There it is!" Kurt smiles happily and Blaine hasn't the faintest idea what the cause is. "Sorry, you just haven't said my name once throughout this entire conversation and usually you say it a lot. I was missing it, I guess, but then you just said it so…all good!"

Blaine gapes. He has actually driven Kurt insane, there is no other explanation. Kurt just seems to find Blaine's disbelief amusing because he laughs and then pulls Blaine against him, enveloping him in a hug that smells too blissfully Kurt-like to be comforting.

"There, now it feels like Christmas," Kurt murmurs against his cheek and Blaine's hands clutch tighter in response, nails pulling at the fabric of Kurt's pyjama top. "And don't think I'm letting you off our duet this year, Warbler Blaine, because that is soooo going down."

Blaine laughs despite himself, enjoying the warmth returning to his chest; it's fire, but it's restrained behind a grate, not burning him anymore. He moves to pull back, but Kurt's eyes up close are scarily mesmerising and before he can comprehend what his body is doing, he's closing the gap between them.

Kurt lets out a soft 'hmmph' sound as Blaine's lips unexpectedly touch his. Blaine is too caught up in the feeling of kissing Kurt again to register it, just lets his mouth rediscover something he never thought he'd get to do again. Apparently, his lips had thought otherwise because it's purely muscle memory as he captures Kurt's top lip between his own, pulling just enough to extract that little sigh from the back of Kurt's throat. But then Kurt is pushing him back with a hand on his chest and his mind jolts back to reality as his eyes fly open.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

**A/N: Thoughts? I do have exams coming up, but I'll endeavour to keep updating regularly (it won't get as bad as before, I promise!) **


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: I admit this isn't as edited as usual, but I'm going away for the weekend and wanted to publish this before I went. Hope you enjoy!**

Whoosh. The paper has decided to float apart before he has even restacked it this time, burying him just as he tries breathing again.

He doesn't know what possessed him, all he knows is that he just crossed a boundary that should have been visible a mile off. Earlier in the evening he'd been desperate for the most innocent of touches and then his stupid brain had decided that wasn't enough. For some reason, he'd allowed the simple goodwill gesture of a hug to intoxicate him. Sure, Kurt had forgiven him now, but that didn't mean he wanted to get back together and that certainly didn't mean he wanted Blaine's mouth anywhere near him.

He's in a sort of dazed panic as he jumps of the couch, the blanket tangling around his feet. It might as well be tangled around his heart by the way its thrashing inside his chest, trying to force its way through skin and bone. He side-eyes Kurt just to gage how angry he'll be.

But Kurt doesn't look angry; he just looks sort of….shell-shocked. "Um…" He doesn't even stammer, he just frowns and meets Blaine's gaze.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—I don't know why. Sorry."

Kurt's just staring at Blaine, really_ staring_ at him, like he's in some kind of exhibit. It's funny because people used to look through him and now all they do is watch him, waiting for him to screw up and then scrutinising him when he does.

He needs everyone to stop looking at him through a magnifying glass. The distorted vision is stretching him to breaking point, his fingers already broken from clutching himself together, and it just _hurts_ so much. The ache is too far down to soothe, though, and the more they scrutinise him, the more it tears through layers of skin and warps him from the inside out. The thing is, he's scared to destroy the magnifying glass; what if that's the only way people can see him? What if he cracks the glass and then they go back to not looking at him at all? He can't work out which is worse, to be honest.

He can't believe that forty minutes ago he was completely numb and now he's swelling with emotion, uncomfortable energy buzzing through his limbs, his lips tingling just slightly where they touched Kurt's. He really needs Kurt to say something.

"I'm sorry." He tries again as the silence drags on, wondering how he's meant to make this right. Maybe if he could actually think without his pulse swaying in his ears he could figure out how to build a time machine. He can't even quietly slip off to bed because Kurt is still sat on it.

"Ok, right, this is—" Kurt pauses and at least he's not staring at Blaine anymore. "This is a bad idea."

Blaine nods, though he has no idea why. He doesn't actually know what Kurt is referring to. Blaine kissing him is a bad idea? Trying to work things out is a bad idea? Blaine remaining in this apartment is a bad idea? It could be any of them, really.

Kurt looks more certain when he continues, less like he's figuring out a particularly hard calculus problem. "We can't do this."

Blaine nods along again, wishing Kurt would just clarify what 'this' is.

"Do you, um—do you want me to leave?" Blaine hedges and forces himself not to fidget.

"What? No, of course not; I meant it when I said I was glad you came to New York." Kurt stands up opposite Blaine, keeping a sizeable distance between them. _Probably scared you're going to launch yourself at him again,_ Blaine thinks, taking a step back just to reassure Kurt.

Kurt rolls his eyes at that. "I'm not mad. You just took me by surprise—like you always do."

"Is that meant to be a good thing?"

"Of course it's a good thing. It's one of the many reasons I love you."

Blaine blinks and Kurt's eyes narrow; someone shines a light behind the magnifying glass.

"And _that _is exactly why we're not doing this now." Kurt says, gesturing at Blaine as he squirms. "I love you, but you're not going to believe that at the moment so this whole thing," He gestures between them, face scrunching up. "Is a bad idea."

Blaine thinks he's doing that thing again where he pushes people away without meaning to. "Sorry."

"No, you have to stop blaming yourself for things. It takes two to make a relationship—or break it for that matter. Can you see why this is a bad idea?"

"I'm not stupid." He feels the need to assert this; he might be crazy, but he's not dumb. "I didn't mean to kiss you, ok? It just…happened."

"I know, I get that. I was close to doing it too." It should be a comforting revelation, but something about the way Kurt says it grates on Blaine.

"Great, so you have more self-control than me. Have a fucking medal, Kurt!" He hasn't exactly missed the irrational anger, but it does feel bizarrely nice as it sluices through him.

"Oh, come on, I didn't mean it like that and you know it." Kurt's using his I'm-trying-very-hard-to-stay-calm-but-I-still-sound-bitchy voice and it irritates Blaine even more.

"And here comes the self-righteousness…"

"Shut the fuck up!" There, the composure is gone; Blaine has broken through it again.

He ducks his head down, smiles humourlessly at his feet as Kurt huffs out a breath.

"Oh my God, this is—we are so ridiculous." Kurt reaches down to pick up the fallen blanket, shoving it back on the couch in a wrinkled ball. "Plus, there is no way my dad is still asleep in there."

Blaine realises once again that there are no actual walls in this apartment—what kind of stupid design is that?—and then he makes the mistake of catching Kurt's eye. They both burst out laughing and it's absurd and probably more than a little unhinged, but Blaine likes Kurt's laugh more than he hates Kurt's bitchy-voice so he just basks in it.

It takes a minute and several half-hearted shushing gestures on Kurt's part, but Blaine's mirth eventually runs out, sinking into the floorboards underneath them. He folds his arms and looks back at the messy couch. That's when he realises it.

"Kurt, I pulled the blanket off!"

"Huh?" Kurt looks up from where he's pretending to flick lint off his pyjama top.

"I just realised—I pulled the _blanket_ off."

Kurt squints, confused, and then comprehension dawns on him as he, too, remembers their earlier conversation. "Oh my god, you did—you pulled it off!"

"Bit of an anti-climax, though."

"It's a start." Kurt says, twisting his hands together.

"I'm sort of cold now." Blaine states, hoping Kurt will get the hint and let him sleep.

"Cold? As in numb…?"

For some reason, Kurt looks really concerned again and it takes Blaine longer than it probably should to work out why.

"Oh, no, not like _that—_not emotionally. I just meant it's actually cold in here."

Strangely enough, it makes him feel sort of proud that the thing making his skin crawl is an external, natural factor for once, one that he can easily do something about.

"You can share my bed, if you want. Not to—y'know, not _that_—just to sleep. If you want?"

Blaine hesitates, but who is he kidding? Of course the answer is yes.

So somehow they end up on either side of Kurt's bed, facing inwards but not too close, paused as if both waiting for the other to speak. It should be awkward as hell, but when Kurt shuts off the light on his bedside table, rolling forward enough to press a shadow of a kiss to Blaine's cheek before retracting into his own space, Blaine is only content.

He's still a balloon, but his fraying string is no longer tied around them; if he's going to stop himself from drifting on the next gust of wind, he needs to find something new and less destructible to anchor him. Preferably something that can't float away, too.

**A/N: There's one more chapter in New York and then it's back to good old Ohio...**


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: I am so sorry that this took me over a week to post! It's been a pretty bad week all in all and I just couldn't find the time or motivation to get this into shape. That's also why I split this chapter into two so despite what I said before, there will be one more set in New York. I hope you enjoy it anyway!**

Blaine dozes for the rest of the night, flitting in and out of consciousness and blearily searching for the clock on the nightstand each hour. The little red numbers mock him through their reluctance to change, and Blaine grows increasingly frustrated that isn't morning already; it's not like he's going to get any more sleep. Not the deep, restful kind anyway.

Kurt is breathing heavily next to him, not snoring exactly, just puffing out little breaths through his nose. Blaine envies his ability to sleep like that, senseless to the world, and wonders why he can't. He had sort of expected that lying in such close proximity to Kurt would allow him to drift off, just like he used to, lulled by the solid security that only having another body next to him can provide. Yet, here he is, unable to sleep despite the groggy tiredness. Maybe it's because he isn't actually touching Kurt, they're not cuddled together like days gone by, and the warmth radiating from the other side of the bed is tapered by the gulf between them.

He remembers the Christmas Eves of his childhood, when he would spend all evening proclaiming that he was way too excited to sleep, and then pass out on top of the covers just before eleven, Cooper or sometimes his father tucking him in on their way up to bed. The following morning, he'd jump up at dawn and wake the whole house up, infectiously enthusiastic at the prospect of opening presents and the traditional family game of Monopoly.

Kurt snuffles next to him and he blinks his eyes slowly, trying to clear his head of the stupid memories. He wonders why he lost that excitement when he turned twelve, but deep down he knows it had nothing to do with discovering Santa wasn't real; Christmas was not the only thing that changed. Cooper was finishing college and his dad was growing more distant, working longer hours and only spending time with Blaine if a big game was on the television or, later, when he wanted help doing up an old car. It was around this time that Blaine started being teased by his classmates, cutting jibes aimed at his height and appearance, alien words thrown at him which he looked up when he got home.

He remembers the time his mother found him on the big computer in the study, saw the Google search open, and quickly asked him a question about dinner, her tone overly bright as she ignored the definition of 'faggot' on the screen. He remembers his parents having whispered arguments when they thought he was asleep, his dad becoming even more aloof, not getting home until after ten each night. He remembers how his perfect grade cards and extra-curricular achievements never impressed his father, how his mother brushed them off with forced smiles and asked him whether he was going to try out for the football team this year, how much his father would like it if he did.

He remembers keeping it to himself as the bullying got worse, not able to stand disappointing his parents further. _If I don't start the battle, there can't be a war, _that was the mentality he adopted as he inched further inside his own head with each locker shove. He remembers how the aftermath of the Sadie Hawkins incident hurt a lot more than the beating itself. His father had smiled that tight smile, eyes flicking passed him to his mother, connecting with an ally and leaving Blaine wondering when he became the enemy in all of it.

He remembers trying to side-step the post-traumatic stress, but instead holding countless memorials inside his mind for what was lost; marking his sacrifice year after year as everyone else looked on politely, their sympathetic expressions telling him to let it go. So he suffered in silence, hand grenade of memories fiddling in his palms, a gift to himself as he smiled and side-stepped in time with the music.

He remembers the nightmares and how his father told him that it needed to stop, that it was unsettling his mother; he started boarding at Dalton not long after that. He wonders why his father accused him of not trying hard enough when Blaine was bending forwards for him, always one step ahead as he was accused of lagging behind. Sometimes he'd be close to giving in and spilling it all out for his dad to see, but every time he'd pause, remind himself that if he didn't start the first battle, there couldn't be a war. It was all pointless really; he felt like he'd been shot down regardless sand the bullet hole never quite closed up.

"Mmm…" Kurt stretches, rolling into Blaine, his face smushed against Blaine's shoulder. Blaine freezes, marvels at how quickly a touch seems foreign as his muscles tense. For a moment he thinks Kurt is still sleeping, but then he feels fingers clench around his forearm as Kurt blinks blearily up at him. "Wha' time is it?"

Blaine's always found Kurt's tired slurring adorable; he's usually so articulate and there's something vulnerable about him before he's regained his mental fierceness.

"Six-forty-two," Blaine informs him after a quick glance at the derisive red numbers.

"Ughh…early…" Kurt's eyes are sliding shut again and Blaine wants to scream at him to stay awake. _Don't leave me alone in the dark, please, I hate listening to my own thoughts so much._

It takes Kurt a moment, but he seems to eventually realise that what he's cuddling against may as well be a stone for how tense Blaine is.

"…s'matter?" He asks and Blaine cringes; Kurt doesn't want to listen to more of Blaine's whining, he did enough of that earlier. He shakes his head, turning it away from Kurt on the pillow and forcing his back to relax into the mattress. Kurt uses the hand on Blaine's chest to push himself up, squinting at Blaine through the gloom. "Seriously, what's wrong?" He sounds more alert now and Blaine kicks himself for waking him up.

"Nothing—I'm just being stupid."

He may only be able to half-see, but he can _feel_ the look that Kurt gives him.

"I'm just…thinking about life." He corrects half-truthfully.

"Care to share?" Kurt has settled back down again, a little close for Blaine's liking—or maybe the problem is that he likes it too much.

"No, it's fine. It's nothing you don't already know, not really."

"Ok." And Kurt lets it go, just like that; he always proves Blaine wrong in one way or another. "D'you want to get up then? Or—" He pauses, almost catching himself, but not quite quick enough to stop the idea infiltrating him. "Or I can give you one of those backrubs that help you sleep?"

It shouldn't feel like transgressing a boundary, but it does. Blaine sort of wishes Kurt hadn't hesitated; he really needs one of them to be resolute right now. He suspends himself in freefall for a moment and then the realisation hits him: _he_ can be the resolute one, if only in the smallest of ways.

"I'd really like that." It's quiet, but it's certain and he feels Kurt smile against his shoulder.

He rolls over, wiggling until his neck is comfortable and he can breathe properly, for once not thinking about how easily the pillow could stop his air intake for good. Kurt starts to trace patterns over his pyjama top, brushes of the fingertip slowly morphing into a harder, more massage-like pressure. Blaine focusses on the sensation and forgets that it's Christmas Eve and his parents are free of him this year, forgets that it's Kurt lying next to him, causing this feeling, forgets that life is the most infuriating thing in the world. He allows himself to float away into a skyline permeated by high-rise buildings and replicated dreams. It doesn't feel scary exactly, more exhilarating, as he meanders into the darkness, safe from the wind, but far away from the chaos below him.

**A/N: My exams start next week, but hopefully I'll be in a better frame of mind and it won't take me so long to post. Reviews will easily make my week this time :p **


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Sorry, sorry, sorry! (I'll leave it at that because I could go on for far too long about excuses you really don't care about…) Anyway, I've officially left school now (still have more exams but shhh let's pretend they don't exist) so hopefully posting will be quicker. Thank you for your patience! **

Blaine dreams he's in his bed at home, lying like a starfish on top of his double duvet. He's rocking ever so slightly from side to side, his head still on the pillow as his body rhythmically shifts his weight. He's suspended in that hazy, tired state that he's come to know so well. He's always gotten over-emotional when he's tired—it was the cause of many pointless fights with Cooper when he was little. Yet, now, he's learnt to control that raw, overwrought feeling and it affords him a strange sense of clarity. He still becomes upset really easily, but the superficial and reflective ideas of happiness are also stripped away. Thoughts of pleasing anyone else, or conforming to societal expectations, or even conforming to his own ideals, they all disappear; this is about him, fragile and vulnerable, paradoxically both powerless to affect his emotions and completely in control of them. Of course, since he doesn't actually sleep, he's even more exhausted when he stirs, but he's used to that, too.

Suddenly, Blaine is reminded that he is actually asleep and dreaming as the walls of his bedroom fall outwards like cardboard components of a film set exploding. He finds himself sat cross-legged on the deck of a boat, the rocking motion not from his own body, but from the waves underneath. He sits there in a trance until he starts to feel nauseous and then stands up, takes in his surroundings properly. The boat is smaller than it had seemed sitting down and then, just like that, it's nothing more than a rubber dinghy, dwarfed by the body of water it's resting on.

There's a seagull to his left, frantically ducking under the water again and again. Is it attempting to submerge itself or wash something off its back? Strangely, Blaine feels more connected to this seagull than he has to any person in weeks. He can understand its overwhelming desire, bordering on panic, to overcome its own skin, to cleanse without being submerged, to breathe air and water simultaneously. The bird looks up and its eyes are too familiar so Blaine blinks and turns away.

Across from the bird, on a distant embankment, a wedding ceremony is beginning. A blurry blot in a white dress walks across the sand, between rows of white wooden chairs, faceless guests perched atop them, their blank heads swivelling to catch a glimpse. He can't tell from across the water, but he imagines that she is smiling as she clutches her father's arm, blushing under the gazes of adoring friends and family. He wonders whether she has felt the same displacement that he and the seagull have at some point in her life, whether this union is the way she has chosen to overcome it. Or, perhaps she has contented herself and her husband-to-be is just someone she has swept up along the way.

With a splash, the seagull dips its head under the rippling surface for such a long time that Blaine feels sure it has drowned. It hasn't. Its beak pops up again, none of that coughing and spluttering that a human does. He thinks how beautifully a seagull could die if it so chose – if it simply decided to stop struggling on the surface and surrender to nature's murky depths. For a fraction of second, he feels jealously simmering up in his chest, but then movement on the other side of the water catches his attention. His eyes and thoughts turn back to the wedding where the newly-weds are walking back down the aisle as man and wife.

And then he feels someone's gaze on the back of his neck and spins precariously to see there's somehow a food vendor in front of him, shouting too loudly about bagels and cream cheese. He can smell coffee, it's strong, overpowering almost—

"Mornin' sleeping beauties!" Burt's voice is deliberately just a notch too loud as he leans over the bed, holding a cup of coffee, and Blaine wakes with a start.

Kurt groans next to him and—oh—apparently Kurt is _right next to him_. Blaine blushes instinctively as he realises that Burt knows they shared the bed. Kurt, however, seems apathetic as he nuzzles against Blaine's arm, murmuring at his dad to leave them alone.

"Kurt, it's eleven," Burt tries and receives a muffled grunt from Kurt which cuts off as Blaine sits up, attempting to flatten his hair with one hand. "And it's Christmas Day."

"Sorry, sir, it's my fault, I kept him up and—not like _that_!" Blaine is mortified at Burt's raised eyebrows. "I just—I wasn't—we were just talking, I swear—"

"Hey, relax! I know you were; I'm only messing with you, kid."

Blaine looks down, waits for the heat in his cheeks to fade and wishes Kurt would say something.

"Is that coffee?"

Blaine had sort of been hoping for something a bit more enlightening than that, but he'll take it.

"Yup, here you go." Burt passes the mug to Kurt. "Yours is in the kitchen, Blaine, and I've made brunch. I figured we can just eat the beef later and fill up on that."

Blaine nods, his left ankle cracking embarrassingly as he shuffles out into the living area. He looks at the mussed-up couch from last night and carefully folds the blanket up, placing it neatly on top of the pillow at one end. He surveys the food littering the table, the croissants and pancakes and fruit and bacon, the latter looking somewhat depleted — Burt has presumably eaten more of that than the other stuff. Blaine might never have subscribed to the whole Bible thing, but the idea of the forbidden fruit is undeniable. Kurt doesn't let Burt have bacon so naturally he wants it more; that's just the fatal flaw of human psychology.

He wonders if that's why Kurt always seems to want Blaine more when he doesn't have him. Kurt was pining over Blaine long before Blaine got his head out of his ass and realised he had feelings for Kurt too, and when Sebastian was texting him, Kurt was desperate to hang out with Blaine all the time, to outdo the competition and keep the trophy. But then, when Kurt left for New York, Blaine missed him too much, clung too tightly — he was clingy, whatever Kurt says to the contrary — and suddenly he wasn't the forbidden fruit anymore. He tried too hard and became a mundane apple from a run-of-the-mill grocery store.

By that logic, he only became appealing again because he stopped trying so hard—he stopped trying completely, to be honest. He shakes his head as he tears a piece off a croissant; he'd told himself he would stop the overanalysing.

It's only because he's worried about the conversation going on behind the curtains. It's suspiciously quiet, but Blaine doesn't need burning ears to know they're talking about him. Part of him is still mildly concerned that Burt has the wrong idea, but that's sort of eclipsed by the other part of him which is, well, panicking. He is worried that Kurt will actually think things through now that he's fully awake and realise that he extended too much to Blaine last night. He's scared that everything that passed between them last night—the hurt and the forgiveness and the newfound secrets and soft touches—all of it will mean something different in daylight. Or, worse, it won't mean anything at all. His life can't be void of meaning just when he got it back; please, God, don't let Kurt snatch it back.

Right on cue, Kurt opens the curtains and moves to the table, eyes narrowing at the sight of the bacon.

"Did you eat some of this?" He asks, gesturing at the offending meat before pouring himself another cup of coffee.

"Yes." Blaine lies. It slips off his tongue so easily.

"Hmm…"

Blaine can't tell if it was the answer Kurt wanted or not. He puts the remainder of the croissant down for a moment, his appetite tapering off.

"You alright?" Kurt's voice changes suddenly, becomes more alert as he peers at Blaine's face. "You look sort of pale."

Blaine shrugs, picks up his croissant again. "Just tired."

Kurt doesn't answer for a moment and Blaine thinks he's lost interest, but then there are fingers on his own, pulling them away from his plate. He glances down and notices that he's done that thing where he shreds all his food into little pieces but doesn't eat any of it.

"Oops, sorry."

"Don't worry about it; you don't have to eat if you're not hungry."

"Really? Because at home I'm not allowed to leave the table unless I've eaten everything, especially the vegetables."

Kurt snorts, but cuts himself off when he realises Blaine isn't really joking. "Well, you're not at home." He empties the shredded croissant onto his own plate and begins eating the massacred remains. "Did you have anything in particular you wanted to do while you were here? In the city, I mean?"

"Oh, um, nope." Blaine watches Kurt dip a piece of croissant in Nutella, the spread curling temptingly around the flaky pastry.

"May I make a suggestion?" Kurt waits for Blaine to nod before continuing, Burt pulling out the chair next to him and oh-so-casually reaching for another slice of bacon.

"My friend Caleb from work owns a penthouse in midtown Manhattan—yes, he's a trust fund baby, dad, don't start—and he sort of said I could use it while he's out of town for the holidays. I mean, I was going to take you up the Empire State, but it's crazy busy and _expensive_ today so I thought we could just take in the view from Caleb's apartment instead…if you want to?"

Blaine nods, cheering up considerably at the idea. Kurt still wants to spend time with him; that's a good sign, right? He watches as Kurt spreads Nutella on the last piece of croissant and holds it out to Blaine who raises an eyebrow.

"Come on, you've been staring at it the whole time I was speaking."

"I have not!" Blaine protests; he can't help it if chocolate spread on buttery pastry looks delicious.

"Have to!" Kurt singsongs, shoving it towards Blaine's face while simultaneously slapping his dad's hand away where it's creeping towards yet another slice of bacon. "No, you have most definitely had enough—I don't care if it's Christmas!"

xxx

Blaine hadn't been sure what to expect from Kurt's co-worker's apartment. Maybe more golden fountains and diamond-encrusted counters and priceless pieces of art. The owner is clearly rich—he'd have to be to own a tenth of this apartment given its location—but the interior décor is tasteful, not over-done for the sake of it.

"I'll go get us some drinks?" Kurt half-queries, half-states, and Blaine nods distractedly, already moving towards the double doors which seem to lead out onto some sort of platform.

He wrestles with the lock for a moment and stumbles forward as it finally gives. The first thing that hits him as he steps onto the balcony is the air, cold but not unwelcome as it pours into his lungs. Then, his eyes widen of their own accord as he takes in the view; it's nothing short of breath-taking.

New York City looks pretty in pictures and movies, but it looks impossibly prettier in reality. Up here, the traffic and crowds fade away, leaving just the buildings, magnificently stoic in the afternoon sun as they rise up out of the messiness below. People say that the city thrums with energy, and Blaine has always attributed this to its diverse, constantly evolving population, but now he realises that it's the buildings which are alive, that vibrate with energy as they stretch upwards, perpetually craving more from the sky.

For a moment, he's overwhelmed by it. He feels like some sort of crazed arrow spinning off into a vacuum with no direction and no magnetism to guide him. His chest tightens in triumph as his gaze ricochets between buildings; he has nothing to hold onto and nothing to aim for, like the gull currently circling the skyscrapers in a well-practised routine. Soon, Blaine will be able to vanish into the view completely, a speck amongst all this stability, and finally — _finally_ — he'll drift away.

He blinks and just like that, the realisation hits him: he doesn't want to float off into the sunset any more than he wants to plunge onto one of the many spiked buildings—because that would mean he just fades away, he wouldn't even get the chance to burn out. Slowly, he unfurls his fingers from where they're clinging on to the railing, his white knuckles appearing to reflect the outdoor brightness.

So what if people can see the gashes and scars littering him? So what if people watch him shrivel then expand in repetitive, well-practiced motions? So what if bobbing too close makes them uncomfortable? He's a balloon and he's tired of fighting it, of pretending that he isn't and drifting out of sight just to appease those around him.

He can embrace his weightlessness. The string may no longer be an anchor, but it doesn't have to choke him either. He can be free without losing control, like the gull still circling above the buildings, out of place in the metropolis, yet perfectly at home in the fading glow of the sun.

Sometimes, when the wind drops, he can fall downwards and that's okay, but he doesn't have to wait for someone else to catch the string before he lands in that mangled heap, the one he spent so many weeks afraid of. All this time, he has been convinced that he's stuck in reverse, that he needs to start moving forwards again, even if that motion is to drift off into obscurity. But he hasn't wildly displaced himself; he has simply been hovering downwards for a while. And he can propel himself upwards just as much as he can make himself fall—and that's what he's going to do. Because he might have grown accustomed to the view from below, his stomach desensitised to the sickness of falling, but he prefers the view from up here.

Kurt joins him on the balcony, two glasses of something sparkling clutched in his hands, and Blaine experiences a new sort of adrenaline rush as the gull wheels out of sight. The buildings below give him a sense of invincibility and he doesn't mind if it's impermanent; right now, in this moment, he feels _alive_.

They drink a couple of glasses each and then decide it's getting too chilly and Burt is probably hungry. They have their Christmas dinner when they get in and then open the few presents they have to exchange while half-singing carols and it's wonderful. Blaine doesn't have to fake any cheeriness, he doesn't have to fix a smile in place, because he feels happy. It really is as simple as that, just like Dr Marissa said it should be. He remains suspended in this feeling all evening—no, not suspended; he's not precariously balanced, he's just beautifully submerged—and he barely stops smiling for the rest of the trip.

**A/N: Apparently you don't eat turkey on Christmas day in the US so I've gone with another meat – apologies if I've got it completely wrong! Additionally, I'm not an expert on birds in NYC but I figured seagulls are everywhere right? Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it! **

**Also, thank you to the reviewer who told me I didn't have a trigger warning on this story - I do over on Scarves and Coffee so I don't know what went wrong here but I'll see to it that a warning is added! **


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: See? Told you I'd update quicker :)**

Burt drops him home from the airport which is incredibly nice of him considering it's well out of his way. His mom opens the door and she looks more anxious than she should do, her hands already flapping at her sides. Blaine worries that she's been on edge like this the entire time he's been away.

She thanks Burt and says something vague about meeting up for drinks which Blaine knows will never happen. Burt's smirk suggests that he recognises the polite offer for what it ultimately is: empty. He shares one last conspiratorial look with Blaine and then climbs into his truck and drives away.

"Let's get you inside then," Blaine watches his mom take his bag, regardless of his protests, and fuss over him as they go inside. He gets why she's been a bit more over-protective lately and he can't blame her for that, but she seems almost jittery as she makes him sit at the table and have a glass of water.

"Had a busy few days?" He asks nonchalantly, stirring his plastic straw in the clear liquid—the straw that she hasn't given him since his eighth birthday party.

"You'd better drink that up; airplane travel is always dehydrating. I think it's because of the recycled air system they use. Do you want something to eat, too?"

Blaine's starting to feel a twinge of foreboding in his stomach; she definitely just avoided his question. It's really quite frustrating because the knot of anxiety that he's been carrying around for months, the one that makes him feel simultaneously like he's wound up too tight and unravelling too fast, finally loosened itself the other night and he was enjoying the lightness in his chest.

"Mom, what's going on?" He puts his glass down and turns to look at her, but her eyes are fixed on something beyond him. "What…?" He swivels to follow her gaze and sees his father stood in the doorway—except it doesn't really look like his father.

First of all, he isn't wearing a business suit, or his formal 'home-wear', which is unheard of apart from that one time when they took a family trip to Disneyland and he bought a pair of shorts. Instead, he's wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, the yellow colour of which does very little for his currently wan complexion. What catches Blaine's attention before all of that, though, is the swelling on the left side of his face and what look like stiches over a gash near his temple. Then there's the fact that his entire left forearm is covered by a cast.

He's clearly not on his deathbed, but the contrast from his usual detached toughness makes Blaine feel strangely sick. He stands up on shaky legs, his pulse quickening for no discernible reason. He reminds himself that it's not possible to have a panic attack without something triggering it and this is in no way panic-inducing. It's like the foreboding from a moment ago has turned into a living creature in his stomach, gnawing away at his ability to reason.

"W-What happened?"

"Your father had a bit of an accident. He was hit by a car two days ago—"

"—Clipped; it barely hit me. I was leaving the office and I got _clipped_ by a car."

Blaine nods, wishing his stomach would stop churning.

"He's very lucky it wasn't worse." His mom adds, fussily making her husband a drink now.

"Thank goodness—I can't golf for three months as it is."

He still sounds like himself, but his usual, irritated voice sits incongruously with his injuries and it frightens Blaine. His father is human, of course he is, but he's always seemed invincible somehow, unbreakable. Blaine's sweating and the lighting in the kitchen is too bright all of a sudden; he has to get out of there.

Neither of his parents stop him as he dashes out of the kitchen and up the stairs, water untouched on the table. He feels better as soon as he closes his bedroom door, as if he can shut everything out and keep it contained downstairs. He sits on the bed and closes his eyes, counting to ten and making it to six before his thoughts are drawn back to his father.

It's utterly ridiculous; it's a broken arm and a swollen face, for God's sake. His father will be fully recovered in a matter of weeks and everything will go back to normal, yet for some reason that doesn't stop Blaine from feeling unsettled. His first thought is to call Dr Marissa because this feeling is not _normal_, but when his shaky fingers dig his phone out of his pocket, it's Kurt's name that they gravitate towards. It barely rings twice before Kurt picks up.

"Hey, you! Did you have a good flight? I'm guessing my dad only just dropped you off because he hasn't called me yet."

The creature in his stomach calms slightly at the sound of Kurt's voice. He almost doesn't want to explain what's happened because there's something incredibly comforting about Kurt not knowing. Blaine can sit here and soak up Kurt's happiness and not think about his own unease. Except he can't because that was the point of ringing Kurt in the first place.

"My dad, he, um, he had an accident."

He shouldn't have made it sound that dramatic and now Kurt's inhaling heavily and Blaine can picture him clutching the phone tighter. "What happened?"

"He's fine," There, that wasn't so hard. "Well, he's not because he doesn't look _normal_—sorry, I'm not explaining this very well."

"That's okay, take your time."

"He got hit by a car and he's fine, he is—I just—it's weird seeing him with a broken arm, you know? And his face is all busted up and I know it'll heal, but—Kurt, he's wearing _sweatpants_…"

"Oh my God!" Kurt's exclamation is caught somewhere between concerned and amused. "Okay, I can see how that would freak anyone out."

"Yeah," Blaine agrees, feeling less nauseous already. "I'm not—it's not the fact that he's injured. It's just—he's my father and he's meant to be—I mean, he always acts so…I don't know…"

"Invincible?" Kurt supplies and Blaine does that thing where he nods before realising he's on the phone.

"Exactly. It's funny because I haven't felt any kind of _connection _with him since I was like six, but then he gets roughed up a bit and I'm…scared almost?"

"Blaine, that's completely understandable. You might not be that close, but he's still your dad, you know? And you only get one of those."

Blaine exhales, fingers unclenching. Kurt gets it, just like Blaine had subconsciously known he would.

"Thank you."

"Not sure what for, but you're welcome."

"For understanding and stuff. I should probably go now so your dad can get hold of you. I just really needed to tell someone and my mum looks like she's about to have a breakdown right now; she gave me a straw with my drink, like I was a kid again."

"Oh, no, not the sippy straws!"

Blaine laughs, the noise dislodging the lump in his throat and allowing the anxiety to drain out of him with each breath.

"I'll talk to you soon, Blaine. Love you!"

"Love you, too."

Kurt waits for Blaine's reply and then hangs up and Blaine smiles at his lack of goodbye; some things never change.

xxx

Dinner is minestrone soup and bread, evidently so his father can eat one-handed without help; it's nice to not be the elephant in the dining room for once.

Afterwards, Blaine does something he hasn't done for months: he goes to sit in the front room. Dr Marissa had told him to try and surround himself with others a bit more, even if he's just a passive observer of life's general hustle and bustle. Blaine had briefly considered going to the park each day after school to do just that, but he had never really had the energy to attempt it. There's very view people he wants to be around. Tonight, however, he decides anything is better than sitting alone in his room and follows the sounds of the television into the sitting room.

He expects it to be his mom catching up on one of her favourite crime dramas, the predictable but absorbing variety, yet when he tentatively pushes open the door, it's his father sat in the chair, newspaper balanced on his lap. He regrets his decision instantly; his claustrophobic room is preferable by far to being alone with his father. The problem is that his father has seen him come in, even if neither of them has acknowledged the other, so now he can't leave without showing his weakness. As much as he doesn't want to start the first battle with his father, he also doesn't want to lose it.

He awkwardly perches on the sofa, trying not to put too much weight on the cushions as if he's sat on someone's lap. He smooths his hands down his thighs, wondering if his mother will bustle in shortly and relieve the thrumming energy in the room, preferably before Blaine's eardrums burst with the uncomfortable pressure.

"What are you watching?" He ventures, focussing his gaze on the screen rather than the injured face that makes him squirm.

His father makes a show of pushing his newspaper away, squinting towards the television. "Some documentary on the Amazon. Your mother was watching it."

He has a habit of doing that, pushing everything onto Blaine's mom so that he can't be incriminated himself. It's presumably meant to uphold his impenetrable façade, yet it only serves to make him look pathetic in Blaine's opinion. Does it really matter who chose to watch the nature documentary?

"Is it any good?"

"I haven't been watching it. It's not really my sort of thing."

"Too faggy for you, huh?" Blaine doesn't know what makes him say it. One moment he's nodding along and then his tongue is forming words that he would never say out loud in a million years. _Don't fire that first shot, Blaine,_ he admonishes too late.

His father looks at him. "Don't say that word inside my house."

Blaine feels his insides contract with fear, the words tattooing themselves painfully into his brain. _Don't say that word inside my house._ It sounds just a tad too close to _don't _be_ that word inside my house _which, in turn, sounds a little too like _get out._ Blaine shivers with the weight of that implication; although he's always known that his father doesn't accept him being gay, he's never worried about him actually acting on those feelings. Of course he's heard of kids being thrown out or beaten up by their parents for their sexual orientation, of _course_ he has, but it had never felt like a palpable threat to him. Providing he didn't start the first battle, his father could remain impassively distant. Blaine may not enjoy being held at arm's length, but it was a damn sight better than being let go of completely.

Except he has just pushed a little too hard, maybe set some invisible time bomb off—he can practically feel it ticking in the air between them as he whips his gaze back to the television. Logically, Blaine knows his father is in no fit state to beat him up, but Blaine hasn't boxed in a while and his self-defence is a little rusty. He feels too fragile suddenly, his skull too breakable underneath a fist. And if this time bomb explodes like Blaine thinks it might do, a fist is going to be the least of his problems.

Suddenly, his father stands up, newspaper slipping to the floor and Blaine flinches instinctively, cowering back against the sofa before he can even register what he's doing. He looks up to see his father staring at him, having not moved from in front of the chair, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Just getting a beer." He says, voice strangely distant as he regards Blaine. "Want one?"

It feels like a test, or maybe some sort of code that Blaine hasn't learnt to interpret yet. "Um—yes, please—thanks." He sounds ridiculously weak and he waits for his father to comment on it, but no cutting remark follows. His father merely reaches down and picks his fallen paper up, placing it carefully on the seat before leaving the room.

Blaine's muscles unclench slowly, the cushion behind him anchoring him to his surroundings. He can't disappear into his head right now; he needs to stay alert. He listens out for the sound of the fridge opening, but the whole house is silent. What if his mom has gone out? What if they're completely alone?

He doesn't hear his father coming back until he enters the room, shirt rumpled slightly and two bears clutched in his good hand.

His father hands him a bottle and sits back down again, sipping the beer and staring at the wall above the screen.

"How's Kurt?" It's probably meant to sound natural, but it comes across as incredibly strained.

Blaine considers his options. He could just retreat back into the trench and wait for the gun fire to be over. Or, he could load up his own gun, stare his father down until one of them surrenders for good. The latter is riskier, but he won't be exposed to that horrible darkness and dirt anymore.

His fingers clench around the beer. "He's…good. He's got a big showcase coming up since he missed the Autumn one—you know, to come back here and all that."

"He's been a good friend to you, hasn't he?"

Blaine's not sure what angle his father is firing from. Is that meant to hammer home their break-up or undermine Kurt's significance in his life?

"Yes." Blaine says shortly, tracing the rim of the bottle with his index finger.

"I fear I haven't been a very good friend to you."

The admission causes Blaine to look up, shocked. He'd never even considered that the previous question was his father turning the gun on himself. Blaine doesn't even know what to say to that so he lets the silence play out.

"I always wanted us to be friends." It sounds childish coming from his father's lips, his injured arm suddenly a result of a playground accident; it doesn't sit right with his lined face and his tired eyes.

Blaine nods, wondering if his father was abducted by aliens on his way to the kitchen and this man here is simply an implanted prototype.

"I had so many ideas, you know, about how we'd bond as you grew up. I thought we'd play football together on Sundays, fix up cars and random household appliances each summer; I thought we'd annoy your mother with our antics, form a united front until she gave in and let us eat in front of the game. I was going to be your role model in a way I hadn't been able to with Cooper. I'd raised one kid, I'd lived a bit more life, had a bit more under my belt—I thought I was set. I thought I'd get it right with you, I really did."

Blaine is enthralled, but he wishes he wasn't. It feels like that exhilarating moment of climbing into a rollercoaster, the harness trapping him in place; he remembers his excitement from the queue, but he also really wants to get off before the ride starts. It's the most his father's said to him in such a long time.

"You threw me a curveball, I know that," His father is chuckling, but Blaine feels sick; _he _derailed the family's domestic bliss, _he_ ruined his father's plans. "I should have batted anyway, but for some reason I let it freeze me in place like a complete idiot."

The gunfire is ricocheting round the room and Blaine's self-preservation instinct is kicking in, but he also has the bizarre desire to force his father to duck, too.

"I like football." Blaine states dumbly.

His father laughs harder. "I know," he says, balancing the beer between his legs while he rubs a hand over his face. "You like it more than Cooper ever did." He swigs back the last of his beer and Blaine wonders if it's his first; there's a reason why drunk people shouldn't operate weaponry.

"When Kurt's next in town, we should go to a game—all three of us."

Blaine gapes and decides that his father must have had too much to drink; there is no other explanation, aliens aside.

"Kurt doesn't really like football, he likes scarves."

His father raises his eyebrows, swigs more beer back. "Ok, then, you can buy Kurt a nice scarf and then we can go watch the game."

Blaine smiles in spite of himself at the mental image provided, the comfortable familiarity of it all. "I'd like that." He admits quietly, a tiny knot loosening in the mess that is his insides.

"Great." His father places his empty bottle down on the coffee table with some difficulty. "I'm glad he's been a good friend to you when I haven't."

There's that word again: friend. It's so incredibly unsettling when applied to either relationship.

"He's not a friend, dad. He's the love of my life." He looks his father in the eye as he says it, stands his ground as he waits for a response.

"You're young, Blaine, you have the rest of your life to figure these things out."

"No, you don't—"

"I do understand. You forget that I was your age once and I fell in love with every girl I dated. None of them were your mother."

Blaine feels blindingly angry, waves of heat rising from inside to heat up his face, at just how much his father doesn't get it. He's about to say as much and then he realises something that makes the fight drop out of him in shock. This isn't an argument about being _gay_, this is an argument about being young, being naïve; his dad isn't suggesting that he and Kurt aren't meant to be because Kurt is a boy, but because they're both young and have more changing to do, more experiences to have. Of course, he's still completely wrong because Kurt is _the one_, Blaine just knows he is, but that doesn't matter, not right now.

"Okay," He acquiesces, offering a smile. His father returns it and taps his fingers on the arm of the chair with his good hand.

"I'm sorry I didn't know what to do with your curveball." The apology is unexpected and doesn't begin to cover half of the things Blaine thinks it should but he accepts it for the peace offering it is. They both clear their throats at the same time and it's sort of funny.

"So," His dad says, tone too yielding for the firmness Blaine has always associated with him. "What do you say we change the station because, frankly, I can't stand this nature rubbish of your mother's?"

xxx

Blaine goes to bed that night more than a little bit shell-shocked. Somehow, he just spent an entire evening in the same room as his father, watching Formula 1 no less, without either of them combusting into dust. It doesn't feel like they're on the same side of the field quite yet, but they're no longer aiming guns at each other; they're meeting in the middle until they can shake hands with clear consciences and Blaine's surprisingly ok with that. It was worth it just to see the jubilant look on his mom's face when she'd wondered into the sitting room to find them amiably discussing tires and lap times.

Of course, he also thinks of the injustice that his father had this self-realisation _now_, after everything. But then again, he reminds himself as he texts Kurt goodnight, all is fair in love and war.

**A/N: I absolutely love hearing your thoughts on this story so fire away!**


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Yes, I am alive and, no, I haven't fallen into a black hole. I did, however, have the rest of my exams and then went away for a few days to celebrate the finishing of said exams. But I am now officially revision-free which means more writing and editing time – yay! Hope this is in some way worth the wait…**

On the first day back at school, Blaine's dad offers to drive him in. He almost declines because it means he'll have to find a lift home, but then he realises it's the first time his dad has offered since he got his licence. Plus, although he's allowed to drive now that his medication is balanced, he still feels anxious every time he gets behind the wheel, as if the car is about to spin out of his control at any second. So he finishes his toast and grabs his bag before sliding into the passenger seat, happy to make somewhat tentative conversation. His dad even asks him about Glee without any derision in his tone; it makes Blaine look forward to it without the usual undercurrent of guilt.

Blaine gets one last wave from his dad as he gets out the car and he thinks it ought to embarrass him, but it doesn't. Maybe that's because he's been waiting eight years for that wave, or maybe it's because his reputation at this school could not get any worse. Either way, he feels incredibly free as he wonders inside the main doors and heads to his locker. Not even the shove from a passing jock destroys his mood, nor the ridiculously long essay they're set in his second period English class.

He even manages to score one of the salad pots at lunchtime—by far the most edible item in the canteen—and sends Kurt a victorious text as he sits down between Artie and Sam. The reply buzzes through a few seconds later, and it's only a smiley face, indicating that Kurt is too busy for conversation, but he's still taken the time to reply which makes Blaine's stomach flutter like a pre-teen with a crush. He grins down at the screen until Sam elbows him in the ribs.

"Ouch, what was—"

"Dude, look out, she's headed your way!"

Blaine follows Sam's eye-line until he sees the potential threat and—oh, crap.

Miss Pillsbury is clacking her way towards him in her peep-toes, tugging her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and smiling at no one in particular. It's not that Blaine dislikes Miss Pillsbury, she's sort of sweet and also one of the few genuine, innocent people in Lima, but he really doesn't need to give the student body anymore reason to think he's a freak. And the guidance councillor venturing into the canteen just to speak with him about one of his many problems is basically equivalent to holding up a neon sign above his head saying 'messed-up weirdo'.

"Blaine, hi!" She says enthusiastically, the others at the table suddenly very interested in their food.

"Um, hi?" He sounds ruder than he should, he knows that; he can practically hear his mother's sigh in his ear. But Miss Pillsbury is just so falsely cheerful and _loud_, her voice bouncing across the eerily quiet cafeteria in a way that makes Blaine wince.

"I sent you an email about a meeting this lunch, did you…?" She trails off, unable to even accuse him of not checking his emails in the morning.

"Oh, uh…no, sorry, I just—"

"Would you mind popping along to my office?"

Blaine drops his fork and grabs his bag before she's finished the sentence, not even caring that he's barely started his salad. He follows a still-smiling Miss Pillsbury out, trying not to care about the stares and whispers. Logically, he knows that their uninformed opinions don't matter, but he still feels like a child being marched to the naughty corner, ashamed without fully comprehending why. It's not like he's airing his dirty laundry because none of them actually know the details—hell, most of his friends don't—but they can still make out blurry shapes behind a sheet. This little incident will be all over the school's blog by this evening; he's flashed them just enough to weave a couple of absurd conjectures into riveting lies. Besides, the jocks need a nice little excuse to slushie him.

He sits down in Miss Pillsbury's office and watches her rearrange the stationary on her desk. He feels like he somehow misplaced it all by breathing, that the stapler being a millimetre out of place is in some way his fault. He wonders how she became a guidance councillor with her profound ability to make people uncomfortable; surely making students feel guilty for sitting in her chair isn't the best way to make them open up. But then, Blaine reminds himself, sometimes it takes a shrivelled balloon to know one. Maybe the fact that she's living her life despite the gashes is meant to inspire others to do the same.

"So, Blaine—"

"Am I—"

They both break the awkward silence at the same time and he tries not to grimace at her self-conscious little giggle.

"Don't worry, you're not in trouble. I just wanted to talk to you a little bit about your future plans?" She poses it as a question so Blaine nods dutifully. She nods back like one of the weird dolls his grandmother used to collect.

"…Ok?" He prompts eventually when she doesn't continue. After imagining all the things she could have brought up, future plans seem relatively harmless.

"So it says here—" She taps the sheet of paper in front of her, "—that you've applied to NYADA."

"Um, yeah. I applied a while ago, but I don't really know…"

She tilts her head at him. "You want to go there?"

"I did," He takes a breath and then realises something. "I do."

"Hmm…"

The sound isn't very promising and Blaine steels himself.

"You know we've had very talented students rejected before," She says after a moment, eyes ridiculously wide as they watch Blaine.

Blaine wants to laugh because _of course_ he knows that; she's acting like someone random applied ten years ago, not his own friends, his own—Kurt.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't have applied—yay for dreams!—but I just wanted to make sure that you had some realistic back-ups."

"I applied elsewhere."

"Right, okay, yes." She shuffles some papers into submission and Blaine realises she already knows that. Why is she asking such pointless questions? "Have you heard from NYADA yet? Are you a finalist?"

Blaine's stomach shrivels around the tiny bit of salad he did manage to eat. For a moment, he's tempted to lie and then he thinks better of it.

"No, I haven't."

"Well, no need to worry; there's still plenty of time. No news is good news, right?" She's smiling again so Blaine resists the urge to tell her that he wasn't worried until she brought it up. "But I do want you to read this pamphlet because it's good to be prepared."

She passes him a badly-produced leaflet with 'DEALING WITH REJECTION: WHEN YOU JUST WANT TO BE WANTED' emblazoned across it in what looks like ugly Microsoft Word Art.

"Can't we just be positive for now?" He asks, refusing to open up the pamphlet. He's sure guidance counsellors are meant to be encouraging.

"Of course, there's always room for positivity! I just wanted to remind you that NYADA is an extremely competitive school and also a high-pressured environment so you might be more suited to—"

"No." He cuts her off, no longer caring if he comes across as rude. Concern about him not getting accepted is one thing—even if it is slightly premature at this stage—but implying it's not the right choice for him anyway, that somehow he's too weak to handle it, well that's something else entirely.

He knows why she thinks that, of course he does. This time last year she would never have made such a comment. But now he's seen as a liability, susceptible to the slightest of pushes, as if too much competition will make him swallow another bottle of pills. She doesn't appreciate that her assumptions are far more dangerous than a bit of stress.

"Oh, um, I didn't…" She's flustered now, hands flapping uselessly at already-ordered paper. She grabs another pamphlet somewhat desperately. "Here, have a look at this."

Blaine blanches when he sees the flier for Lima Community College.

"It's good to have options and there's absolutely nothing wrong with taking a bit of time to let things settle. After all, you've got to have roots before branches…" She keeps talking, apparently unaware that Blaine's insides have turned to molten lead.

The thing is, Blaine knows that you need roots before you can have branches, but he also realises the need to plant the tree in the soil before said roots can grow. And if he plants himself here in Lima he'll grow in this limited space. He needs to plant himself somewhere his branches can reach up into the sky, even if he waits for his roots to be firmly embedded in the ground first.

As much as he continues to resist her appeals and stupid sayings, stuffing the fliers into his bag and escaping her office as soon as she loses steam, her words niggle away in the back of his mind throughout the day. He doesn't understand half the formulas on the board in his math class, it's some extension of the trig they were doing before Christmas, but he can't concentrate enough to follow how they are derived. Glee is slightly less awkward than when he'd first gone back, but now he feels itchy in his skin for an entirely different reason. He's not sat by himself anymore, but he's still just an observer; he's too distracted to pick a side in the argument over song choices, let alone contribute any ideas of his own.

He follows the rest of them out afterwards, Tina still refusing to speak to those who didn't agree with her, and it's not until he's stood in the parking lot that he realises he has no ride home. He could ring his mom, but she's probably busy now that she's started back at work so he decides to just walk. It's not like he has that much to do this evening, just a couple of bits of homework. He heads out of the main gates and tries to brainstorm essay ideas while ignoring the uncomfortable thoughts jumbled behind the veil of suppression.

The honk of a car behind him takes him by surprise and he assumes he's walked out onto the road without thinking, but when he blinks around, his feet are still firmly planted on the sidewalk. Confused, he squints at the car that made the noise and then realises that Sam is behind the wheel. He tries not to feel disappointed when Sam rolls up next to him and winds down his window instead of just driving off.

"Where are you off to?" Sam's face looks too big framed by the gap of the window and Blaine tugs his coat tighter around himself.

"Home…?"

"Dude, that's miles away." Sam states, forehead creasing as he tries to work out just how far away Blaine lives.

Blaine considers his concerned expression for a moment. "It's not too bad and I guess the walk will do me good."

Sam nods noncommittedly and Blaine's about to say goodbye when his mouth suddenly drops open, eyes going wide as he stares at Blaine.

"Wait, you're not like going to go cheat on Kurt again are you?"

"What? No!" Blaine sort of thinks he should feel affronted, but he just feels angry at himself for causing that thought to appear in Sam's head in the first place. "Besides, we're not even together now so…"

Sam looks immeasurably relieved and Blaine feels familiar, unwanted thoughts creeping into his mind. He fights to push them away and hold Sam's gaze.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to…accuse you of stuff or whatever, but the last time you went off and wouldn't tell me where—"

"Okay!" Blaine cuts off, aware that he definitely doesn't want to relive that particular evening. "It's cool. I really am just going home; my dad drove me in this morning and I don't have a ride, that's all."

"Oh—hey, I can give you a lift?" It's clearly a spur-of-the-moment offer and Blaine envies his ability to invite people around him without over-thinking the social interaction. It seems like forever since Blaine's been able to do that which is why, on a whim of his own, he says yes. That and the fact that his fingers have gone numb, the prospect of walking the streets by himself not particularly appealing, especially when it's too early to ring Kurt.

And that's how he finds himself sat in the passenger seat of Sam's car, chatting about random TV shows just like old times. Sometimes the lulls in conversation are a little awkward, suspended somewhere between where they are and where they used to be, but it's light and uncomplicated and Blaine likes that. Maybe they both rely on reminiscing over previous jokes a bit too much, but they're reconnecting on some level, their friendship reassembling before Blaine's eyes.

Sam drops him off still talking about a new game he wants to test out with Blaine and honks his horn as he drives off. As soon as Sam rounds the corner, though, Blaine feels suddenly exhausted. It's not that Blaine hadn't enjoyed properly talking to Sam for the first time in months, it's just that the whole thing was unexpected and draining. He's sort of got out of the habit of socialising and whilst he thinks he prefers people talking to him than the loneliness of before—especially now they're starting to talk to him like he's normal again, less like he's about to slit his wrists in front of them—it feels like he's still scraping away the layer of isolation from his skin. He has to work a little bit harder than before to stay engaged which is difficult because being polite and upbeat and outgoing, it's always come so naturally to him. And now it wears him out.

He supposes it's a good thing. Dr Marissa would probably tell him that he's being more genuine with his relationships now, that he's no longer pretending when in others' company. But it's also a pain in the ass because he has to forcibly stop himself from being unsociable, make himself say yes to things like Sam's game night because he knows he'll enjoy them once he's there, that all his doubts and completely stupid foreboding will come to nothing. He prefers hanging out with people to sitting alone in his room, but the latter is so much less effort.

It doesn't help that his current tiredness only serves to egg on the little voice in the back of his head that hasn't shut up since his meeting with Miss Pillsbury. Now that he no longer feels like he would be encroaching on Kurt's territory if he went to New York, now that there's a possibility of them getting back together, he wants his shiny Big Apple dream more than ever — which is a problem when less than 6% of applicants are accepted. Plus, he's missed the deadline to apply to any other New York universities so it's NYADA or Ohio State and, well, the latter doesn't really compare in his recently de-clouded eyes. It's better than Lima Community College, but it's still Ohio and if there's anything Blaine's had enough of over the past few years, it's this goddamn state. Even the thought of enrolling there makes him want to climb into bed and sleep for a hundred years.

When he finally gets the energy to walk up the driveway and into the house, head aching on his shoulders, his mom tells him to come into the kitchen. Apparently she has to go out for some work drinks and has left Blaine elaborate instructions for dinner. He blearily nods, not having heard half the things she said, and decides his dad can sort it out when he gets in later. Naturally, his mom notices how quiet he is and asks him what's wrong as she fusses with her purse.

_The voices in my head are so loud I can barely get a word in edgeways, it's never bothered you before_, he thinks viciously, on instinct. His eyes widen as he realises where this thought process leads, where he's been headed all afternoon really, and he offers his mom a shrug and a small smile before he heads to his room. He feels like his insides are swelling and very soon they're going to burst, leaving that old numbness in their wake. He's a child being held over a drop slide and he doesn't want to go down it, but he also doesn't want to hang in this suspended state; if he's going to be subjected to gravity again, he just wants to get it over with. He wants to fall.

He ought to phone Dr Marissa, he thinks, arrange a quick phone interview if nothing else. But that's not what he wants—he doesn't want his New York dreams deconstructed by someone who knows his mind; he wants reassurance from someone who knows _him_.

He rings Kurt and taps his thumb on his thigh as he waits for the call to be picked up, the ringing an endless hollow sound in his ear. _Please, God, pick up this time, I'm scared and I need you, just pick up, please…_

No one answers and the automated voicemail gives him such a strong sense of déjà vu that he has to close his eyes. He lies back on his bed, tears already pooling behind his eyelids, and tries to be rational as he hits re-dial. It goes to voicemail again and Blaine lets out a frustrated whimper, dropping his phone on his chest.

He knows Kurt can't always drop everything for him, but he could at least text, or tell him to—Blaine cuts off his own thought process, aware of how selfish he's being yet again. He always does this, becomes wrapped up in his own needs and gets himself in a state—he can feel the dread in his stomach, rising up and vibrating inside his chest—

Except it's not something _in_ his chest that's causing the vibrations; his phone is ringing, buzzing silently against his sweater, and he grabs at it without even looking at the caller ID.

"Blaine? You okay?" Kurt's voice sounds concerned, but calm and Blaine soaks it up for a moment before he realises he should probably answer.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt…" It's not what he'd meant to say at all, but at least his voice doesn't break.

"Don't be silly, you could never interrupt anything. Hang on, I'm just leaving the office now." There's the sound of a door opening and then the general background noise of the city.

"I can ring back later if it's a bad time?" Blaine asks, praying that Kurt won't ask him to; he really doesn't want to be left alone with his thoughts again.

"Nope, you can keep me company while I walk back to the apartment."

Just then, Blaine's mom pokes her head round the door, making Blaine jump. She looks anxious, probably ready to cancel her plans, but her face relaxes when she sees that Blaine's on the phone.

"Kurt?" She mouths at him and when he nods, she blows him a kiss and disappears again. He hears the front door close a moment later.

"Enough about me. What's up with you?" The sounds on Kurt's end get quieter and Blaine wonders if he's ducked down a side-street.

"I saw Miss Pillsbury today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She was sort of…concerned about my future plans."

"Why? What's wrong with them?"

"Ok, so remember I applied to NYADA? Well, that's the only one I applied to."

"Huh?"

"I only applied to one college."

There's a loaded pause and Blaine waits nervously for Kurt's reaction. "You only—ugh, you are so unbelievably frustrating sometimes!"

This is why talking to Kurt is the best thing in the world; because had anyone else said that, Blaine would have gotten defensive or apologetic or maybe a mixture of the two, but with Kurt he just smiles into the phone, laughs when Kurt continues to groan dramatically. It's probably why he never gets tired of speaking to Kurt, unlike everyone else he knows. It doesn't matter if he sounds off, or unpolished, or weird because Kurt's seen him at his worst and yet somehow has never run away screaming. Blaine feels like he can fully let his guard down with him; conversation with Kurt is his safe place.

"I mean, I sent an application to Ohio State as well, and Miss Pillsbury gave me a leaflet for Lima Community College today which looks—"

"Blaine Anderson you are not going to Lima Community College! Tell her to shove the flier up her—in fact, don't, she's sort of sweet and I still feel bad about that time I threw up on her shoes. But the point still stands."

There's another pause and Blaine lets the smile slide off his face. "Kurt, what if I don't get into NYADA?"

There's huff of breath on the line. "Okay, firstly, you are going to get in because you are crazily talented and I honestly cannot think of a better candidate. But, if they are total idiots and don't offer you a place—which, again, not going to happen because you sing like a dream—then you can just take a year off. You can still live with us and work or something while you re-apply to more schools in the city. Either way, it's going to work out."

Blaine couldn't stop smiling now if he wanted to; Kurt knows exactly what to say and how to say it and, God, Blaine couldn't be any more in love with him.

"I love you." The words tumble out of Blaine's mouth as soon as he thinks them, still sagging with relief from Kurt's words.

"Of course you do, I am an oracle of wisdom."

"Wow, and so amazingly modest. You could have just said it back, y'know."

"Presumptuous, are we?"

It's Blaine's turn to groan. "Please tell me we haven't resorted to the royal 'we'…"

"Grumpy, are we?"

"Oh my God, _Kurt_—"

"Mm, love you too, sweetie-pie." Kurt coos and Blaine rolls his eyes; his ceiling must be tired of him grinning at it by now.

"If you're just going to mock me…" He trails off, half-hearted threat left hanging.

"I'd never mock you, babydoll," Kurt's still using a baby voice and it's ridiculous, but Blaine's stomach still flips pleasantly.

"Actually, I kind of like that one." He says seriously, heat flaring in his cheeks even though he can't see Kurt's judgement.

"What? Babydoll?" He pauses and when Blaine doesn't reply he hums in interest. "Huh, I guess I'll file that info away for later use."

"No, I'm being stupid, forget it."

"Now why would I do that,_ babydoll_?"His voice has dropped, it's sinfully smooth as it meanders into Blaine's ear, and Blaine is suddenly fighting back a whine for a completely different reason.

"Get it, Blainey!" He's brought out of his stupor by a yell in his ear which most definitely didn't come from Kurt.

"Santana, don't—"

Blaine laughs as he hears the resulting scuffle on the other end of the line; he'd forgotten that the loft was somewhat crowded now. But Kurt had said that there'd be space for him and Blaine knew he wouldn't go back on that. Although, if Santana had the couch, Blaine would surely be forced to share Kurt's bed which—well, there would be no complaints coming from him.

"Blaine?" Kurt sounds breathless when he finally gets his phone back which really doesn't help clear Blaine's head of certain thoughts—thoughts that, now he thinks about it, he hasn't allowed himself to have for months.

"Yep, still here." Blaine says weakly.

"Ugh, she's vicious with those nails, and I swear she has a _sensor _for—I mean, I've literally been home two seconds, she's insane—"

"You love her really." Blaine reminds him, picking at the skin around his thumb and forcing his heartbeat to return to normal.

"I tolerate her." Kurt corrects with a put-upon sigh. "You know who I do love though?"

"Rachel?"

"No, she ate the last of my Greek yoghurt last night."

Blaine winces, wonders what kind of hunger leads a person to eat Kurt's stash. "Ouch, she should know better."

"Yes, but not the point. Guess again."

"I give up."

"Not so presumptuous now, I see." Kurt sing-songs and Blaine rolls his eyes. "I love you, too, even if you are a ridiculous idiot who doesn't apply to other schools in New York."

"I'm sorry, I just thought you wouldn't want—I didn't see the point at the time."

"I know what you thought. You know it's not true now though, right?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good. Love you," Kurt repeats, and then he giggles and Blaine knows what's coming. "Babydoll!"

It's not in any way sultry this time and they both crack up, Blaine's stupid meeting with Miss Pillsbury already forgotten.

"Love you, too. Thanks for talking to me."

"You say that like it's a chore."

"Well, you do have to wrestle Santana just to finish a conversation with me…"

"Fair point; you owe me one."

"I do," Blaine agrees seriously. "Talk to you soon?"

"Of course. See you, Blaine."

Blaine can just hear him yell Santana's name before the call is disconnected and he flips over, grinning into his duvet. He feels tired again, but no longer drained—just sort of drowsy, really. He sends Dr Marissa a quick email, setting up his next appointment for the end of the week, and then spends some time picking the perfect song for Glee club.

The next day, he sings a solo for the first time since the start of the year and even asks Sam to record it on his phone so he can send it to Kurt later. It feels so freeing to sing again, surrendering himself to the music without over-thinking it and letting the words drift away instead of himself for a change.

_It's different now I swear_

_There's something in the air tonight_

_And I can only stare at the glimmer of the night lights_

_And what I used to be scared of is making me aware of why_

_I lift my eyes from the sidewalk_

_I was so lost, it was dark_

_I'm alone, I'm alive_

_And my hope still scrapes the sky_

_Like all these buildings I will try_

_To leave the world behind until my head is clear_

_Draw a new skyline…and change my atmosphere_

**A/N: The song at the end is This City Never Sleeps by Jason Walker (go check it out- it's good!) **


	32. Chapter 32

It's like he can't catch a break at school when he goes to his locker that Friday only to find two jocks waiting for him, slushies in each hand. The four drinks drench him, one of them actually gets poured over his head, ensuring that both his hair and clothes are ruined before second period. He stands still for a moment, waits for the laughter to die out, and feels a tap on his shoulder. Wiping the horrible liquid from his eyes, he makes out Tina next to him, holding out a towel.

"Wow, what was that for?" She asks sympathetically, dabbing at his arm in a useless but well-meaning gesture.

"Do they even need a reason?" He mumbles back. "May I have this please? I think I'm going to go and change."

He wrestles his spare clothes from the back of his locker and makes it to an empty bathroom, deciding he'll just have to skip his second lesson.

It takes a good half an hour, but he manages to rinse the worst of it out of his hair. He decides to leave it gel-free for the rest of the day; it's not like he's got anyone to impress here, not anymore, and the bullies are going to make fun of him either way. He changes quickly and checks the time on his phone. Apparently he has a text from Kurt so he leans on the sink to read it.

_Why am I hearing about slushy attacks from Tina?_

Blaine can practically hear Kurt's indignation bleeding out of the little black words and snorts.

_Because I survived and didn't want to worry you? _Blaine texts back, checks his timetable as he waits for the reply. He has History which is one of those subjects he used to love in middle-school, but is now just sort of apathetic to. It doesn't help that his teacher, Mrs Pickett, is definitely leaning towards homophobic and seems to favour the meathead athletes no matter how dreadful at interpreting historical documents they are. In fact, now that he thinks about it, maybe he doesn't like history at all.

_Do you want me to ring? _

Blaine's touched by the gesture because he knows Kurt must be busy with classes_. Nah, I'm fine. Rain check til this evening?_

_Of course 3_

Blaine takes a deep breath and eyes himself sceptically in the mirror; it's not great but it'll have to do. It's not like Mrs Pickett is going to warm to him either way.

xxx

Slushy attacks aside, his life feels like it's finally getting back on track. He's catching up in his classes (although it's a painfully slow process and he's growing to detest math) and hanging out with his Glee friends again. And then there's the fact that he and Kurt are comfortable once more. They talk to each other almost every night and Kurt is definitely working at listening, he nearly always asks Blaine about his day.

And then he and Kurt get into a sort-of fight. It's kind of inevitable, really; the more comfortable they get with each other, the more time they spend talking, the more they get under each other's defences. It's good and Blaine wouldn't have it any other way, but it 's also clear that both of them are more reluctant to let their guards down this time around; they know what it's like to be kicked from the inside. So even as they become more comfortable with each other, there's an underlying tension fluttering just beneath the surface and it swells imperceptibly, becomes the house of cards in the room that neither of them mentions. The fight really is inevitable when Blaine thinks about it.

It starts when he gets home from school one Thursday afternoon after a day that feels heavy on his skin, clings to his pores when he tries to shake it off. He dumps his bag in his room, gets himself a drink and rings Kurt. He gets no response and that's fine, he knows it's a little early for their daily phone conversation. But Kurt doesn't call him back all evening which is a rare event and this time he doesn't even ping Blaine a text to explain. He just doesn't contact Blaine. Which is fine, Blaine tells himself, resolutely ignoring the fluttering cards in his peripheral vision. Nothing is going to collapse on his watch, not this time.

The next day finds Blaine sat in Glee, mindlessly scrolling through his Facebook feed on his phone (he's trying to stay engaged, he is, but there's only so much melodrama over costumes a person can take). He's grinning at a picture of Sam's sister in a Darth Vader helmet when he sees it: a photo of Kurt and two other guys dressed in sweats and tank-tops, posed in what looks like a dance studio.

It's not the picture that bothers him, Kurt looks happy and the shot is fun, but as soon as he goes to like it and sees the comment underneath, he freezes.

_Looking cute, Kurt!_

Blaine can practically hear the stupid British accent as he stares at Adam's comment. And, yes, it could be construed as a friendly, offhand statement—Kurt _does_ look cute—but Blaine can't help the way his heartbeat picks up as he tunes out of Mr Schue's speech completely. He's not sad, or panicking, or self-destructing, he's just…jealous. Jealous like he used to get whenever a guy got too flirty with Kurt — when he'd pull Kurt a little closer to him, kiss him for just a beat too long and Kurt would look at him with wide eyes, as if unable to believe that Blaine would get possessive over him. So Blaine doesn't see red, but his vision is definitely tinted-green as he types out his own response.

_Even cuter without the sweatpants, not that _you'd _know that…_

It's not a very Blaine-like comment and it's sort of crude and Blaine feels guilty as soon as he posts it, but not guilty enough to delete it. Plus, it makes him feel better when he imagines Adam reading the comment, smug smile drooping off his annoying face. Mr Schue half-heatedly reprimands him for being on his phone and he slips it back into his pocket, happy to cross his arms over his chest and concentrate on the great blue vs purple dress debate.

xxx

Kurt rings him up when he's barely set foot inside his house (almost as if he has timed it exactly, as if he's been waiting for Blaine to get home). Blaine grins, dropping his bag in the hallway and making his way to his room.

"Hey, Ku—"

"How dare you?" Kurt's voice is sharpened to a point, slicing through Blaine as he stops on the landing.

"What?" He says stupidly even though he's pretty sure he knows what this is about.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. _How dare you_?" Kurt repeats, and Blaine imagines his eyes narrowed, glowering at the wall in place of Blaine's face.

"Yeah, I—sorry. I just saw his comment and couldn't help replying."

Kurt coughs out a laugh, Blaine can hear the way it almost gets stuck in his throat. "And what a lovely reply it was. Do you think I want to be discussed like some sort of sex object?"

"Well, he started—"

"News flash, Blaine, we haven't even slept together since last summer!" And there it is, isn't it, the thing that Blaine has been afraid of, the thing that makes the jealousy flare up slightly stronger than before; he can no longer stake his claim on Kurt because he technically doesn't have a claim, not anymore. "And even if we had, what makes you think I'd want you to post that disgusting comment publically?"

Blaine winces. "I'm sorry, okay? I just saw the post and he was right, you did look cute, and I guess I got a bit….jealous."

"We've been through this so many times: Adam. And. I. Are. Not. Romantically. Involved." Kurt's voice is venomous and Blaine really should shut up right about now, but he can't resist flapping at the air with his hands, giving the final push that makes the house of cards collapse.

"Yeah, but I love you, Kurt, and I don't like other gay, attractive men calling you cute. Is that so hard to understand?"

There's a tiny beat and he hardly has time to think _don't say it, please don't say it_ before Kurt is speaking again.

"Blaine, are you even aware of how hypocritical you're being right now?"

He is aware, he's very aware when he says the words that he has no right to say them, but that doesn't make them untrue. Yes, he cheated and, yes, that's way worse than Adam having a stupid, unrequited crush on Kurt, but he can still be jealous. For a start, Adam is in New York with Kurt while Blaine is here, hating McKinley and counting down the days until graduation all by himself. Blaine is here with entire states between them, and as the silence drags on, it feels even further.

He feels the breath leave him as Kurt sighs, put-upon and fed up, and a familiar surge of guilt flows from his chest into his extremities.

"At least Adam's mature about things." Kurt says, and it lacks all of his usual finesse, but somehow the bluntness of it makes it hurt more. Blaine's stomach drops.

And then the guilt is merging into anger and he hears himself whisper, "Fuck you," before he hangs up, but he doesn't feel his mouth move; it's like he's watching a film where the protagonist is nothing like him and yet so, so relatable at the same time.

He sits at his desk for a moment, hand over his mouth, not to keep sobs in, but because he can't believe he just said that. _Oh, God, he just said that to Kurt_. But also, and perhaps more worryingly, he doesn't regret it. Blaine shouldn't have made the crude comment, but Kurt's reaction shouldn't have been to push Blaine away again, definitely shouldn't have been to deliver the low blow that was his last statement. Blaine might have been immature, but Kurt wasn't much better.

Kurt doesn't call him back and for a few minutes Blaine remains perfectly still, stunned, feeling the angry fire inside of him surge and retract in little oscillations. It takes him a moment, but then it hits him that it's _his_ fire. He's not feeding off of Kurt's emotions, or anyone's for that matter; this is just Blaine and his anger at the whole ridiculous fight. The thought excites him and the flames ignite further, making him laugh into the silent house. It might burn like hell, but Blaine doesn't care because he just told Kurt to fuck off and he doesn't feel numb; he feels alive.

He gets his breathing under control again and then picks up his phone once more. He finds Sam's number and doesn't hesitate before he presses the call button.

"Hey, man, what's up?" Sam answers, somewhat distractedly.

Blaine could bitch and whine about the whole thing and Sam would be sympathetic in all the right places, even if he didn't understand the specifics. Blaine could, but he doesn't want to. "Do you want to come round and play video games?" He asks instead.

"Dude, I'd love to, but I'm about to head to Kitty's party thingy. You know, the bring-your-own-alcohol-my-parents-are-out-of-town thing she's hosting?"

Blaine doesn't know, obviously hasn't been invited, but he nods along anyway. "Sure, yeah, no worries. Maybe some other—"

"You should totally come with!" Sam interrupts enthusiastically, a loud thunk in the background. "Shit. Just tripped over the stupid…" His voice trails off as he presumably checks for damages.

He almost declines, but then he thinks about how he doesn't burn bridges, he just stops using them and lets them crumble away from disuse.

"Sam? You okay?" He waits until Sam grunts his assent before continuing. "I'll come if you don't think she'll mind."

"Kitty? Nah, just bring a bottle of something and she won't care. I'll see you in like an hour?"

"Sounds good, thanks Sam."

He feels the little spark still ignited in his gut and knows he made the right choice, especially when his dad even offers to drive him and collect him later so he can have a few drinks. He's not going to let anymore bridges fall down, even if he risks igniting them in the process.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: It's been so hectic; I seem to get back from one trip and go on another (not that I'm complaining, but travelling makes updating hard). Anyway, here's the next chapter before I go away again. The first bit is Blaine's point of view then it switches to Kurt's. Hope you enjoy!**

The fire fades as Blaine gets ready for Kitty's party, unable to settle on an outfit. All his clothes seem to be too big, swamping him and making him feel like a cartoon character, or too small, restrictive and uncomfortable against his skin. He sinks down onto his bed, lets his arms sag heavily at his sides, fingers stroking uselessly over the duvet. The soft fabric is sort of comforting, but also a reminder of how rough his fingers are getting; he really should start moisturising again.

He looks at his clock and decides he doesn't have time to change yet again. He'll settle with this silly polo top which makes his arms look pathetically small because everyone there will be too drunk to notice anyway. He gathers his phone and his wallet and waits for his dad to shout up the stairs. He feels uneasy with the persistent feeling that he's done something wrong yet wouldn't go back and change anything if he had the opportunity to do so. It manifests itself in the beginnings of a headache and just a hint of nausea, his body handing him a ready-made excuse to bail on the whole thing. But he promised himself he'd make more of an effort, that this time he wouldn't push people away, so he takes a painkiller mainly for the placebo effect and goes downstairs to wait for his dad instead.

When he first arrives, most people seem to have had a head start on the whole alcohol thing. Either Sam gave him the wrong time or there's been some serious pre-drinking going on. He snags a beer of his own from Kitty's stash and makes his way into the front room where everyone seems to have congregated. He almost panics when he doesn't immediately recognise anyone (apparently Kitty invited her more popular cheerleading buddies as well), but then he spots his Glee friends in a corner and makes a beeline for them. To be honest, the first hour is incredibly dull and Blaine considers calling his dad to come and pick him up again. He doesn't want to look rude and he's doing his best to smile and wave his beer in time with the thumping music whenever anyone looks in his direction, but time is passing torturously slowly and he's just not feeling it.

And then, somewhere between a bad rap battle between two cheerleaders and the latest Katy Perry song blasting through the speakers, Blaine stops pretending to have a good time and actually starts to enjoy himself. He dances with Tina and Sam and laughs at the antics of people who have definitely had more to drink than himself. Somehow each time he finishes a drink someone offers him another which he accepts gratefully. He's not smashed, he is definitely still aware of his surroundings and the room isn't spinning, but he does feel buzzed and he can't think of a reason not to climb on the sofa and dramatically sing along to the stereo.

As he jumps down rockstar-style to the laughter of his friends, he feels like a balloon, but not a shrivelled one. He's weightless in a good way, soaring upwards as someone pushes him into Sam to take a picture. He smushes his face against Sam's and grins as widely as possible, Tina giggling somewhere to his right. Blaine is a balloon and it's _awesome_.

xxx

Kurt wakes the next morning to Rachel's infuriatingly loud vocal exercises and lets out a snarl of frustration. He got approximately three hours sleep last night because every time he dozed off, his subconscious dragged him back into alertness. It's not that he's worried about Blaine—they'd agreed that if they were to rekindle their relationship on any level, Kurt couldn't keep walking on eggshells—but it is the first time they've fought since things got back to normal. And maybe it's a little selfish, but Kurt doesn't want to have more guilt forced upon him. Okay, maybe it's very selfish, but he _loves_ Blaine and he hates being the cause of Blaine's pain, even if he is an oblivious idiot sometimes.

When it's clear that the pillow isn't going to block out Rachel's (albeit tuneful) screeching, Kurt heaves himself out of bed and over to his laptop, deciding he's not hungry for breakfast just yet. He mindlessly logs onto Facebook as his work email account loads and is instantly bombarded with pictures of his high school friends mingled with some unfamiliar faces. He clicks on the album, noticing that it was Tina who uploaded it, and scrolls through the pictures. He bites his lip, but he's unable to stop the smile from forming when he starts to see Blaine in the pictures halfway down the page. Some of them are a bit blurry and it's clear that everyone's more than a little tipsy, but Blaine's happiness filters off the screen and inside Kurt, making his heart lurch. There's one of him dancing with Sam and then with some girls he doesn't know, one of him holding a green-coloured drink in the air, one of him jumping off something and posing mid-air. In all of them, he's grinning broadly, his eyes crinkled and his teeth on show.

For no rational reason, Kurt feels the sharp sting of rejection, like somehow he wasn't cool enough to be included, that he was deliberately not invited to this gathering. It's ridiculous, of course it is; he doesn't recognise the house where the party was held, nor half the people there, but the idea of spending an evening with his old friends and looking after an adorably giggly Blaine is appealing. It looks innocent and fun and a little silly and everyone is clearly enjoying themselves.

More to the point, Blaine is enjoying himself and Kurt knows that is a good thing, that after months of Blaine not being able to smile, he should be thrilled at this display of simple happiness. But there's also a small part of him, a vicious, whiny part he tries his hardest to suppress, that is vexed at this turn of events. Kurt had spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed and for some reason, he had just assumed that Blaine had been doing the same thing. He had never imagined that Blaine would be out enjoying himself, carefree and grinning, and Kurt is a little jealous that he is no longer the only cause of that beautiful smile.

He tells himself to snap out of it because that is definitely bordering on controlling, psychotic boyfriend territory and instead likes his favourite picture of the lot. Blaine is stood on what looks to be a couch, with his arms spread wide on either side of him, his head tilted back slightly and his bowtie a little loose as he smiles coyly down at the camera. It's as close to a peace offering as Kurt feels able to offer right now so he stops himself from liking all the pictures with Blaine in them and shuts his laptop.

Naturally, he only manages half his reluctantly poured bowl of cereal before he is checking his phone for a message from Blaine. His irritation limps into sadness when the screen remains blank and he pushes his phone away from him.

"What's the matter?" Rachel asks from across the room where she's now stretching against the units. "Because I need to leave on time so if you're about to have an emotional crisis, it needs to happen quickly."

"Get your feet off the units where we prepare food!" Kurt snaps in response, stomping back into his partitioned room. He is so far from being in the mood to deal with her today that it's not even funny. If he has to watch her rotating her wrists while leaning to touch her pink sneakers one more time, he might just slap her.

A few hours later and it's still radio silence from Blaine. Kurt wonders what on earth he's doing, whether he's still out socialising, whether he even went home last night. But for the first time in a while, Kurt has absolutely no idea what Blaine might be up to which leads him to the realisation that usually he doesn't have to wonder about these things; usually Blaine just tells him. Kurt never asks about Blaine's upcoming plans—what he's doing right now when he rings late in the evening and the dull light makes his chest ache with longing, but never what he is getting up to next week, or next month. Not unless Blaine volunteers the information, usually after listening to Kurt tell him all about his own life.

Even if Kurt has made a point recently of asking Blaine how his day was, he never asks him to elaborate which, he realises, makes him the worst sort-of-boyfriend ever. The guilt he's spent the better part of a morning fighting flares hot and heavy in his gut, but he doesn't mind anymore because he deserves it. He's falling into the same traps over and over again, and whilst Blaine is learning from his mistakes, turning to his friends instead of a random stranger, Kurt is stuck on repeat in his own little selfish bubble. It's ironic that he'd basically accused Blaine of being immature last night when he himself still manages to trip over his own feet while taking baby steps.

What he really wants is to call Blaine until he picks up and then apologise a lot and then maybe cry, but he feels like he doesn't have the right to bombard Blaine at the moment. Instead, he waits until Rachel slams the door on her way out, still in a huff with him, and logs back onto Facebook. He scrolls back through the album until he finds the picture he likes and then types a comment underneath, hoping that Blaine will in some way understand. It's not about a peace offering anymore, it's about Kurt letting Blaine know that he loves him so much even if it is in a horrendously imperfect, selfish way sometimes, and that if Blaine wants to reach out, he would grab a hold of him.

_The cutest 3_

At least, that is what Kurt hopes he gets across, but he'd understand if Blaine chose not to read anything into it at all.

xxx

It's not until after dinner that Kurt's waiting pays off and he frantically pauses his TV marathon to answer the phone.

"Hello?" He answers breathlessly, gripping his phone so hard that his knuckles start to hurt.

He must sound half-crazed because Blaine laughs slightly. "Hey."

"Ok—I can't believe you just—sorry, I've been planning this out all afternoon and I didn't think—wow, you actually called me…"

"I promised to always pick up your calls, remember?"

"I didn't call, though."

Blaine laughs softly again. "Yeah, okay, but maybe I could sense that you wanted to, I don't know."

"Wow," Kurt repeats, trying to force his thoughts into order. "I promise I did have this all worked out—what I wanted to say, I mean."

"It's fine, apology accepted. I shouldn't have made the comment in the first place and I know that we're not together so I had no right to—"

"No! You can't just accept my apology!"

"I can't?"

"No, not yet." Kurt sighs in frustration, messing up his hair as he thinks of how to word everything. "Okay, just listen for a second while I get this out and then you can talk. I'm sorry, Blaine. I'm sorry that I don't always listen to you and I try so hard to answer your calls because I know you'd drop everything for me, but sometimes it all gets so hectic and you always complicate things—in the best of ways most of the time—but sometimes I just can't deal with that on top of everything else if that makes sense? And I know it's horrible and selfish because you always keep your promise to answer my calls. Hell, you even know when to answer my calls before I've decided to call you! How is that even possible?

"Anyway, my point is that you're perfect and amazing and—okay, you're not perfect, but you're always perfect towards _me_—and I just keep repaying you by being the shittiest boyfriend on the planet because I always talk about myself and I never ask about your plans and…I suck, basically. But I love you so, so much, I swear. Even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes, you literally mean the world to me. And I was so proud of you last night because while I was being pathetic and wallowing in the mess I caused myself, you were finding your own happiness and not letting me drag you down again. I seem to be too good at doing that.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is it made me realise two things. Firstly, I'm a crap boyfriend—actually, I'm a crap friend as well—but I'd really like to work on that. And not just by asking about your day, but by actually listening to the response because you said once that I was the single most interesting kid in all of Ohio. Do you remember that? But you were wrong; _you_ are the most interesting person on the planet and I was stupid enough to let my own self-absorption distort that. And—and the second thing I realised was that you don't need me anymore. You're so strong and you know how to deal with me when I'm being a bitch, but when I hurt you, you don't self-destruct anymore. You know how to deal with me and you know how to deal with yourself and you have this, I don't know…self-awareness that I just don't have.

"It's sort of scary because you don't need me so there's nothing to stop you walking away and never coming back when I'm a jerk, but it's also less scary because I don't feel like you depend on me anymore. I don't feel like I'm going to take a step back into my bubble and you'll topple over backwards. Am I making any kind of sense? It's like you're still my missing puzzle piece but you don't complete my jigsaw anymore; you compliment it. We're separate puzzles but we complement each other. I just need—okay, I'm just going to go ahead and say it and then you can—you can just be honest. I know we're still both learning and it's hard because we're not in the same state, but I love you and I need you back in my life—properly, none of this uncertainty. Can you—will you be my boyfriend again?"

"_Kurt_." It sounds almost like a whine, thick with tears which immediately jolt Kurt's own tear ducts into action. It's weird how he's so in tune with Blaine's emotions, but they've always been a bit _if you cry, I cry_; it has its advantages and disadvantages.

"Is that—I can't tell if that's a good 'Kurt' or a bad 'Kurt'."

There's another pause filled only by Blaine's sniffles.

"Okay, I'm going to combust if you don't give me a yes or no here." Kurt tries, feeling uncomfortably wound-up inside.

The choked little laugh that follows is the most precious sound in the world and Kurt wishes his phone was recording it so he could replay it later.

"I think—no, I know—I'd really like that." Blaine says eventually.

"So is that a yes…?" He hardly dares to believe it, to be honest. He had sort of expected the opposite after the hesitation and the tears.

"Yes, Kurt Hummel, I will be your boyfriend again."

Kurt squeals and jumps up and down in his seat and almost doesn't catch what Blaine says next.

"On one condition."

"Oh?"

"You've got to stop beating yourself up over everything. I know the distance and then the break-up really didn't help with the stuff that I was going through, but you know I was depressed right? And I know that can have triggers and things can aggravate it and all that, but at its core, it's not something you can control. It's just like any other illness. So you didn't cause it or make me feel that way, okay?"

"I know—"

"—Also, I concede that you handled things badly at times, but then we were—I think it was sort of inevitable. Because, well, you were right; at the start we were each other's missing puzzle pieces, just like the song. We completed each other when we met and that was—that was amazing. But then you moved here and you became your own complete puzzle. You were looking for another puzzle to coexist with and I was still a half looking for you to make me whole like before. So put us together and we were one and a half and neither of us felt complete. My instinct was to cling even tighter, yours was to pull away—I guess we were both being selfish, really."

Kurt thinks about it, how it all makes sense in hindsight. "I think you might be right."

"Wow, shall I record that momentous sentence? Did you actually just say I'm right about something?"

"Shut up."

"Shut up and dance with me!" Blaine sings back ridiculously, and Kurt can hear it when his presumably flailing arm hits his bedside lamp. "Ouch!"

"Serves you right. And I've had enough cheesy song references for one day."

"Excuse me, Mr Hummel, but Teenage Dream is sacred."

"Good job you picked an appropriate song on that particular occasion then. Imagine if I'd walked into Dalton and you'd started singing 'When I Get You Alone'. I think my baby penguin self would've been scarred for life."

Blaine snorts. "I am never going to live that down am I?"

"Nope; I'm going to make sure it haunts you for the rest of your life." He pauses when he realises what he has just said, the implications behind it.

"I'd be okay with that." Blaine's voice has gone serious again, scratchy with honesty, and Kurt's chest tightens and then feels beautifully light.

"In that case, we have a deal." Kurt pauses, runs his free fingers over his arm. "I wish you were here right now."

"Me too, then I could hug you."

"A kiss might be nice."

"Fine. Then I could hug _and _kiss you."

They fall silent, listening to each other's breathing, and it's at least a minute before Blaine speaks again. "Kurt?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I tell you about the awesome party now?"

"Yes," Kurt moves from the couch into his room so he can lean back against the pillows. "For a start I want to know how you managed to look the perfect combination of dishevelled and put-together. Also, who took those pictures because they definitely got blurrier as the evening progressed?"

"Oh, that was Tina. Or maybe she gave it to Jake later on, I'm not sure."

"Blaine Anderson, are you suffering from a classic case of morning-after memory loss?"

"Well, technically it's now evening…"

"You little rebel!"

"Shut up!"

Kurt takes a breath, opening his mouth and preparing to sing—

"And don't you dare use my own cheesy songs back at me!"

"Damn it. You're doing the weird physic thing again."

"What can I say? I'm sort of a Kurt Hummel guru."

Kurt groans, but it turns into a laugh halfway through. He almost feels too full of too many emotions; Blaine might not complete him anymore, but he still manages to top him up with feelings. He closes his eyes, lets the pillow cool his warm cheeks. "Yeah, you are. So tell me more about this party. Were you climbing on furniture again?"

**A/N: Reviews really do make my day!**


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: I've just included the link to the playlist I've created for this fic in the author's note of the first chapter. Check it out if you want :)**

For the first time in their relationship, they feel like equals. Blaine might no longer be the alpha-gay, but then neither is Kurt. They're both a little messier around the edges than they were this time last year and Blaine thinks that's a good thing. You can't create a masterpiece without getting a few paint stains here and there, and whilst it's maybe a little unfortunate that neither of them thought to wear coveralls to begin with, at least the finished product looks good. Or, at least, he thinks it does.

Sam had been a little less pleased to hear they were back together, concerned that Blaine was going to get abandoned again. Blaine had become defensive at that, pointing out a few home truths that old-Blaine would definitely have left unsaid, namely how Sam had abandoned him as well, without Kurt's excuse of being out of state. It did clear the air, though, and Sam had even invited him and Tina out for coffee after school, reuniting their weird trio.

Somehow he finds that he the bridges between him and his friends don't have to crumble or burn, that he can use them as little or as often as he wants to, providing he extends the same courtesy. He no longer minds if Sam and Artie hang out without him, especially if they're playing that fantasy game with the big-boobed female elves because, well, ew. Equally, each time he suggests some kind of meet-up and people agree enthusiastically, he becomes a little less scared of appearing needy and being turned down.

Of course, if he ever does find himself at an uncomfortably loose end, if he ever feels that old loneliness prickling in his stomach, he can always call Kurt. Kurt who has cheered Blaine up a couple more times than he probably should have done and then made sure that Blaine stopped beating himself up about that fact. Kurt who now texts Blaine spontaneously, starts up conversations or just sends a snarky one-liner about an unfortunately dressed co-worker. Kurt who properly listens to Blaine talk about his day, especially when he needs to rant about McKinley Neanderthals and their sense of entitlement.

If Blaine's being honest, the bullying is probably worse than he'd like to admit. It's the one blot in his otherwise perfect painting. His torso is getting bruised daily from unexpected locker-slams and he's become a little too well-acquainted with the sinks in the boy's bathroom from washing out countless slushies. And the bullies show no sign of stopping, despite his attempts to keep his head down. In fact, even if he refuses to admit it to himself, let alone Kurt, it's probably getting worse which is just a bit terrifying. Not enough to keep him awake at night—his sleep pattern is more or less back to normal now thanks to the medication—but enough to make his stomach jolt whenever he spots a letterman jacket headed in his direction.

He knows he needs to address it, but there's still a part of him that's scared to upset the balance of his re-constructed life. It's not that he thinks it would change anything as such; he knows that Kurt and his friends would support him. His father's backing is a bit less certain since their relationship is still a tentative one, but it's not the reason he keep his mouth shut, not really. The thing he's really scared of, more so than the vague, ever-present threat of being beaten up, is the return of the helplessness. A locker-slam here and there he can cope with, but by acknowledging his weakness, by allowing himself to be squashed down in size again, he risks the air leaking out of him once more. And he's happy with the way he's floating along right now, he doesn't want to deflate, especially not with his NYADA audition just around the corner. On the whole, he manages to quell his foreboding, taking it one slushy attack at a time and making a conscious effort not to shut people out. He's not going to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, not this time.

Which is why, when he's pinned against the wall by two jocks just as he leaves via the doors near the library and is jostled and taunted before being dropped to the ground, he calmly makes his way home and rings Kurt. Not because he _needs _to, but because he wants to.

"S'up?"

Blaine grins even as he retrieves the bruise cream from his bedside drawer. "Did Kurt Hummel seriously just say 's'up'?"

"Ugh, I'm sorry, I've been sat next to Jason for too long. I swear his girlfriend rings him on the hour _every hour_ and he answers with 's'up' every time without fail. It's annoying, but apparently catching."

"Well, it could be worse. Remember that time Rachel took to saying 'toodles' before ringing off?"

"Oh, God, yes. That made me want to tear my eyes out. She's so pretentious I don't know how I stand her half the time."

"You love her really." Blaine reminds him and he hums slightly in reluctant agreement.

"Love you more, though."

"Yeah…"

"Good day?"

"Not too bad." He uncaps the tube and pushes his shirt up, wincing when he sees the large bruise already developing on his side. "Actually it was kind of shit."

The sympathetic noise Kurt produces is nice; it makes him feel comforted, rather than pathetic. He's even more grateful when Kurt doesn't continue, just waits Blaine out.

"These jocks cornered me on my way out, near the library—I shouldn't've have gone that way, I know—so no one was around and they just sort of lifted me against the wall. It wasn't that bad, not really, but it kind of hurt and they said some things that…well, they weren't very nice."

"Blaine…"

"It's fine. Well, it's not, but _I'm_ fine."

"Have you put that miracle cream on the bruises yet?"

Blaine wishes Kurt didn't know just how amazing the cream currently in his hand is from personal experience. He doesn't like to think of Kurt putting up with this, alone, before Blaine came into his life. He thinks back to Kurt's admission of how he used to be suffocated by the same invisible blanket that Blaine's just struggled out from and sucks in a breath.

"Yeah, I'm doing it now." He finishes spreading the cream on the areas he can reach easily and realises how much he wants Kurt next to him right now. Practically, he needs someone to cream-up his back, but also he just really, really wants a hug. "Kurt, you know how you said I don't need you anymore?"

"Mhm?"

"What if I maybe need you a little bit sometimes?"

Kurt doesn't even pause. "Of course you can need me! I just meant—it's okay to need my support sometimes, that's part of my job. Just because you want a hug when you've been_ beaten up_ by six-foot idiots doesn't mean you're co-dependent. God, no human being should have to put up with that treatment!"

"I don't really mind the physical stuff. I mean, yeah, obviously I'd rather not get pushed around. But it's the slurs that get to me. Who are they to tell me what's wrong and right when they're the ones with the fucked up moral codes? And usually it's fine because they're generic insults, you know? They can call me a faggot as many times as they like and I'm not going to stop loving you. But today they started getting a bit more…personal I guess?"

"Do you want to tell me what they said?"

"I don't know…it's sort of embarrassing." He huffs out a laugh, pulls his polo shirt back down.

"Nothing those idiots could say would ever change my opinion of you. Not ever."

"Can we maybe do this over Skype? It's just—I don't like not being able to see you when I say stuff."

"'Course. I'll just go and get my laptop."

_See, Blaine, you're not being needy. He doesn't even mind. _

It takes a few minutes of faffing about, and then for some reason Skype keeps dropping them as soon as they connect. Blaine almost takes it as a sign, but then decides he's over being ruled by a destiny that probably doesn't exist and, if it does, definitely has it in for him. The kafuffle is worth it anyway when the call finally connects and he can see Kurt's slightly tired, but still overwhelmingly beautiful face.

For a moment it's weirdly formal; whenever Blaine goes on Skype it always gives him vaguely uncomfortable, job interview-like vibes while he gets used to it. No matter how well he knows the person he's speaking to, no matter how good the webcam, there's something about being projected onto a screen that makes him feel like his every move is being judged.

As soon as Kurt leans forwards slightly, resting his chin on his palm and giving Blaine a quirked little smile, Blaine's shoulders sag a bit. He drags his laptop closer, slouches down in his desk chair and thinks about what he wants to say.

"It—it started off with my clothes and stuff because I guess that links into their whole offensively gay argument…"

"I love the way you dress." Kurt says immediately, glancing down fondly at Blaine's bowtie to illustrate his point.

Blaine allows himself half a smile. "And then it was just insults about my…well, about my face. And my height. Apparently not having the growth spurt that Cooper did makes me a target. Like they were literally stood there blaming _me _for their actions, as if the fact that I'm freakishly short gives them—anyway, it was just…not nice."

Kurt's eyes narrow and Blaine starts to feel jittery in his seat again.

"Okay, for a start, if you weren't the perfect height that you are, you wouldn't fit in my arms as well as you do. I mean, our spooning sessions would be ruined. Secondly, what they were doing is victim blaming and that's never okay. Even if you were a horrible person — which you're not — it doesn't justify what they're doing to you. In fact, I really think you need to tell your parents about what's been going on."

"I don't think—"

"I know you don't want to. But they care about you, Blaine. And I really do think the only way this is going to stop is if they go into school and make some noise about it. The school won't care unless its reputation is hanging in the balance. If I wasn't in another state, I'd go in myself."

Blaine accepts the sentiment for what it is and decides there's no point arguing about this; he can shrug non-committedly and Kurt will be none the wiser that his parents are never actually going to find out. Besides, it's only a couple more months until graduation and then none of it will matter anyway.

"Just think about it, okay?" Kurt adds and something about his tone makes Blaine think that he's being read more accurately than he'd been counting on. Please, don't let Kurt ring his parents.

"I will do, I promise."

Kurt looks happier at that. "You _promise _promise?"

"What? Yeah…?"

"I just happen to know from experience that you keep your promises…although I am still waiting for those cookies you promised to make me."

Blaine rolls his eyes, shrugging into the hoodie draped over the back of his chair. "I forgot how un-patient you are when it comes to food. I'll make them when you're next in Ohio, 'kay?"

"Hmm, that'll have to do. Don't blame me if I eat New York's entire supply of cheesecake while I wait."

"I won't blame you, but I might judge you a little."

"Hey! I thought our relationship was now a judgement-free zone!"

"Fine, I promise to support you if you do indeed decide to eat all dairy-based desserts in the tri-state area. I'll use your new belly as a pillow."

xxx

Naturally, Blaine doesn't tell his parents, even though the guilt forces him to keep his promise; he _does_ think hard about telling them, he just ultimately decides not to. At the time, it seems like the best decision. He's only just got his mom to stop fussing over his every move, he doesn't need her to start all over again. His dad is just learning to be in the same room as him, to see him as an equal, he doesn't want to become the pathetic little victim again. Every other aspect of his life is good; he can stick the bullying out just until he graduates.

When he's in the locker room after gym class and doesn't even see the first punch coming, however, he's willing to admit it might have been a bit of a foolish decision. At some point he crumples to the ground and after that it's all a bit of a blur. The punches literally come out of nowhere since his eyes are involuntarily screwed shut and his desperation to fight, to escape, to _run_ is overridden by a sudden detachment drifting through him. He can feel the pain, but his mind is disconnected from it somehow.

He thinks of the irony that they're going to kill him _now_ when he's just rediscovered his yearning to live. His last thought as the blackness descends completely, amidst shouts that are coming from several miles away, is that he doesn't want to crash into the rocks beneath him. He may have grown accustomed to being a balloon, but that doesn't stop his rubbery skin from being fragile; no amount of wishful thinking is going to stop the last bit of air from huffing out of him, not when they squeeze him with such sharp fingers.

**A/N: Getting to the end of the story now. Let me know what you think!**


	35. Chapter 35

**A/N: There's a lot of dialogue in this - sorry. Except I'm really not because I enjoyed writing it. Hope you enjoy reading and let me know what you think!**

Kurt is in the middle of an Audrey Hepburn movie marathon with Rachel when he gets the call. He misses the first one, his phone having been buried somewhere amid the various blankets and pillows he and Rachel have festooned the couch with. Whoever it is rings straight back, though, and Kurt manages to locate his phone underneath Rachel's foot just in time, frowning when he sees his dad's name on the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hey buddy," His dad's voice sounds too controlled and the sickening sense of foreboding escalates into definite déjà vu. Rachel sits up next to him, fingers already clutching into the blanket on her lap.

"Are you…okay?" He tries, telling himself that Carole probably just has a cold. Or maybe the garage hasn't been doing so well. It's probably nothing to worry about.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." He pauses and Kurt can picture him brushing off his jeans nervously. There's definitely something off with his tone.

"Dad?" Kurt asks, a little more desperately than he'd meant to, every cell in his body frozen on the edge of _please no, anything but that_.

"I really wish I didn't have to say this, bud."

A deep breath. A shaky exhale. A pillow clutched too tightly.

"It's Blaine. He's, uh—he's in the hospital."

This time, it doesn't feel like Kurt's world is collapsing around him; it feels like everything has turned to glass and he's trapped in the middle of too many walls going up too quickly. Everything is solidifying before he can break them down. He's stood on a glass platform, boxed in, waiting for it break under his weight, waiting for the stomach-jolting plunge downwards. Or maybe it's already broken and he's in freefall right now because the air seems to be whistling past his ears, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as his surroundings bleed into one another, paint dripping down and staining everything in sight.

A small part of I'm wonders if Blaine is going to keep self-imploding, if this is a never-ending cycle of falling and crashing. An even smaller part wonders whether Kurt will eventually get dragged into the vortex with him, both of them crushed into nothing, trapped in too much glass. A vicious mental voice considers letting Blaine go, a selfish, instinctual kind of self-preservation, but then he realises that he wouldn't be saving himself at all; a life without Blaine would be damnation.

No, he will always choose to jump into the blender with Blaine, even if it means they both get shredded into tiny, irreparable pieces. Hell, if Blaine's wellbeing really does rely on proximity to him, he knows he would move back to Lima in a heartbeat. Words like co-dependency and unhealthy mean nothing in the face of this gut-wrenching panic, of this simultaneous desire to find out _why_ and not utter another word ever again.

"D-dad?" He wants words of comfort, but he doesn't want them from his dad, not really. He wants Blaine. "I don't….He was doing so well, I swear—It wasn't going to happen, not again—oh, _God_, I can't—"

"Kurt, you're not listening to me!"

"I heard. Blaine's—he's in the hospital _again_, dad…"

"Kurt, stop! It's not like last time. I need you to listen to me, please."

Kurt stops talking, but his mind is still flashing through a hundred images a second, trying to reconcile his Blaine with this new time bomb, exploding at random intervals and taking Kurt down in the blast. He suddenly understands why people stay with drug addicts, or alcoholics, or convicted criminals; you can hate that person as much as you want, but they're still _your_ person.

"…him up. He didn't do it to himself. Are you listening to me, Kurt? Because God help me I will get on the first flight to New York and shake it into you if I have to."

The words drift into his ear and they're too loud and confusing, puncturing the black hole currently twisting through his mind. Apparently they're loud enough that Rachel can hear them, too, because she slaps him hard on the arm and pushes the phone harder against his ear, the pressure slightly painful.

"W-what?"

"He didn't try and kill himself, Kurt! He's going to be fine and he didn't try and kill himself so for the love of God will you just calm down and let me explain."

"He…didn't…?"

"No. Those assholes at that pathetic excuse for a school did though. It's not pretty."

"Why hasn't…he didn't tell me."

"The poor kid only woke up fifteen minutes ago. They got him pretty bad; he's been unconscious."

And just like that, the haze is lifted and an onslaught of colours and undiluted anger hit him all at once as his father's words sink in.

"What the fuck? How dare they even—oh my God! I hope you've phoned the police because there is no way in _hell _they're getting away with this. How is he? Can I speak to him? I'm getting on the next flight back to Ohio and those jerks better be locked up by the time I do because I—"

"Woah, kid, slow down!"

Kurt forces himself to breathe and almost laughs at Rachel's comically wide eyes, the way she's edged away from him on the couch.

"They're still checking him over now, but they've fixed up his ribs and head already, and now that he's woken up they're confident he's going to make a full recovery. And I really don't think you need to miss more school by flying back here again."

"But, dad, it's _Blaine_."

"Yeah and he's gonna be fine. He's a strong kid and he's got his parents, and Carole and I, and all of his friends. So here's what you're going to do," He hurries on before Kurt can protest. "You're gonna hang up now so I can go and check on the patient. Calm yourself down for half an hour, get Rachel to make you a cup of that herbal crap, and then you can speak to Blaine. The last thing that kid needs right now is you badgering him about the police and stuff. It seems like his dad is actually stepping up to the plate for a change so he doesn't need me to be his father and he sure as hell doesn't need you to be his father. He needs you to be his boyfriend, okay?"

Kurt blinks with vague annoyance at how right his dad always is. "How did you even know that Blaine and I were back together?"

"It was only a matter of time. Look, Kurt, I know this isn't a phone call you wanted to get and I'm sorry if I didn't explain clearly enough to begin with. But I promise you, Blaine's going to be okay. I would never lie to you about that. I also know that you're feeling overwhelmed and I don't want either of you freaking the other out. So just give it twenty and then call him and tell him you love him."

"Fine, yes, okay." He pauses, eyes flicking down to the blanket twisted on his legs. "Can I text him?"

His dad just laughs. "Pretty sure you're going to no matter what I say, kiddo."

"Yeah, I am. Dad?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks for calling and for—knowing me, I guess."

"Of course. This better be the last time I have to make one of these calls, though."

"You can say that again…"

xxx

"Hello, you,"

The first thing Kurt is greeted with as he clicks 'accept call' on his laptop is Blaine's grinning face. Well, Blaine's grinning face with one eye swollen around the socket, a gash above one eyebrow and another on the opposite cheek, and a neck disappearing into an uncomfortable-looking hospital gown.

"_Blaine._" The whine comes out unconsciously.

"Hey, no, don't do that. I'm fine, I promise." Blaine's looking so earnest and when Kurt mouths an apology, he resumes smiling.

"What damage did they do? Did the doctor explain everything? Did he say how long it would take you to recover? You are going to recover fully, right?"

"Woah, Kurt, slow down! Breathe!"

Damn, his dad was so right; he's not helping Blaine in the slightest with his inevitable freaking out. He drops his head in self-deprecation and forces himself to take a deep breath and let the panic drain back out of his eyes before he looks up again. He wishes so badly that he was back in Ohio, that he could wrap his arms round Blaine and prove to himself that he's still living and breathing.

"Sorry, you're just—you're kind of precious to me. Seriously, though, where did they hurt you?"

"Um, I've only got a broken wrist and a couple of broken ribs so at least I'll be able to walk soon. Luckily, it didn't puncture a lung or whatever so I don't need surgery; they've basically just strapped me up and told me to sit still for a few days. And they're monitoring the concussion at the moment because apparently I hit my head pretty hard. I'm okay, though! It's not as bad as—last time. And they've got me on pain meds so I'm good. In fact, if they give me any more I'm going to be _too_ good. Do you remember after my eye surgery? I'm pretty sure my brain turned to mush."

Blaine's tone is light and breezy; Kurt can't work out if it's the calm before or after the storm. He's still smiling, but Kurt catches the downwards flicker of his eyes during a particularly controlled blink. He's not as put-together as he's trying to pretend he is.

"It's okay to be scared, you know." Blaine looks at him sharply at this, and Kurt can see the denial is on the tip of his tongue. "If I'd just had the crap beaten out of me for the second time in my life, I would be. I'd be terrified."

Blaine stares back at Kurt for a long time and Kurt wishes yet again that there wasn't a screen between them.

"I'm so sick of being scared, Kurt."

The admission is quiet, but the microphone picks it up nonetheless.

"I know. It's nothing to be ashamed of, though."

"No, it's not…that." Blaine takes a moment to think again and Kurt feels so incredibly proud that Blaine is choosing to trust him with this whereas a couple of months ago, he wouldn't have dared to voice any of it. Granted, Kurt probably would have accepted his too-bright smile in the first place and not pushed for the underlying emotion, but still, it's progress. "I guess I'm just tired of being afraid of everything. I'm scared of what people think of me, that they'll get the wrong idea or maybe too much of the _right_ idea. I'm scared of the stupid jocks and the bullying and that makes me mad because they shouldn't be able to get to me that way. They shouldn't." He pauses, gaze flicking between each of Kurt's eyes. "Mostly, though, I'm scared of everything collapsing again. It feels like I'm going to mess up at any moment and everyone'll hate me again—and I'll hate myself, too. I hate how I'm on edge the whole time; even when I'm happy, there's still this little bit of fear in the back of my mind. What if this happens, or what if I do that and can't handle it. I'm fed up of being scared that the slightest thing will push me over the edge. I'm just…fed up."

Kurt nods slowly and raises his index finger to the screen, tracing the line of Blaine's cheek. He wishes he could feel what's on the screen, not reach through it exactly, just get the full sensory experience, the one that includes the soft skin of Blaine's cheeks.

"I think…" Kurt starts and then pauses, digs his nails into his thigh. "I think you need to talk to Dr Marissa about this because I'm no expert on anxiety, or any of this stuff really. I also think you're the bravest person I know for just getting up each morning and dealing with all this. You're scared, but you're not letting the fear control you. That makes you so brave and I wish you could see that."

Blaine shakes his head, trying to sit up further and then wincing at the pressure on his ribs. "I am though. Letting the fear control me, I mean."

"Just because you acknowledge it doesn't mean you're letting it control you. You were scared of those idiots, but you didn't run from them. That takes strength."

"The only reason I didn't tell anyone was because I was more scared of getting depressed again than I was of them—of this." He gestures at his bruised face, gaze lowering. "I was being a coward."

"No, _they_ were being cowards." Kurt can feel his hands twitching with the need to grab Blaine's face, to tilt it upwards. "Look, Blaine, if you want to argue about this until you succeed in convincing someone, do it with Dr Marissa. 'Cause I'm more than happy to listen if you want to vent, or scream, or explain every inch of what you're feeling, but I will never, ever see you as anything remotely close to a coward so don't even try."

Blaine huffs out a breath and looks back down at his hospital gown. For a moment Kurt thinks he's pissed off, that damage control will need to be done, but then he glances up and his eyes are shining with unshed tears.

"Thank you." He says quietly, and he sounds so young and so vulnerable that Kurt can't help the watery little laugh, more of a sob, really, from falling out of his throat. Apparently they make each other emotional wrecks, though given the bruises littering Blaine's face he thinks they should be excused on this occasion.

"God, I wish I was next to you right now…"

"Me too." Blaine agrees, despondent as he watches Kurt's face and rearranges the blankets. "Kurt?"

"Yeah?"

"You realise we haven't been in the same state since we got back together?"

Kurt groans. "Don't remind me. Talk about torture."

Blaine laughs and then their gazes catch and Kurt's struck by how beautiful Blaine is. Yes, there's a purpling shadow of a bruise around one eye, accentuating the dark circles that have faded but not disappeared completely, the skin of his face swollen and angry in several places, but he's still the most beautiful person Kurt has ever seen.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice is lower now, rougher.

"Mm?"

"What would you do if I was next to you?"

Kurt's mouth drops open and he makes a very undignified noise before he forces his eyes to take note of the background behind the smouldering gaze. "Nu-uh. No way are we doing this right now. You're in a hospital, Blaine. A hospital!"

"I could totally see you as a hot doctor…"

"Oh my God, Blaine, stop!"

A pause, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Make me."

"I can't—you can't just—"

Luckily, or maybe unluckily because Kurt's resolve was about 0.01 seconds away from crumbling and he's already uncomfortably flustered, someone else enters Blaine's room then and Blaine's eyes snap away from Kurt's face and towards the intruder.

"Dad?" Blaine says, face flattening, and Kurt doesn't know whether to laugh or cry because of course it would be Blaine's father. _Of course_ it would.

"Oh, sorry, didn't realise you were talking to someone."

"Um, yeah, sorry, I can sign off…?"

Kurt cringes at the awkwardness of the exchange and half-expects Blaine to just end the call without even saying goodbye. It wouldn't be the first time.

But then something happens that makes Kurt jump simply because no part of him expects it: Mr Anderson's face appears on the screen beside Blaine's.

"Ah, should've guessed it would be Kurt." He says and there's no bite behind his words. He looks a little uncomfortable maybe as he sits on the edge of Blaine's bed, but there's a small smile on his face and he offers Kurt a weird half-wave which Kurt tentatively returns. Blaine looks slightly shell-shocked.

"Hi, Mr Anderson."

"Oh, you can—please, call me John."

"Um, thank you, Mr—John." He's stuttering and he sounds every bit as ridiculous as Blaine did when he had this exact same conversation with Burt.

"How have you been, Kurt?"

"Good, thank you. Busy juggling everything at the moment, but good."

Mr Anderson—John—nods and glances over at Blaine who is still staring like a fish out of water. A very, very attractive fish, but still.

"Did you know that the bullying was this bad?"

Kurt feels his back stiffen. "No! I mean, I knew it was bad, but not this bad. If I'd known—"

"I'm not blaming you. Not at all. I just don't understand how none of the teachers saw what was going on." He breaks himself off, scrubs a hand over his face. "Thank you, Kurt. For being there for my son—for being such a good friend to him."

"Dad, Kurt's not my friend; he's my boyfriend again."

It's the first time Blaine's contributed to the conversation and the silence that follows his statement makes Kurt's ears tingle unpleasantly. For one horrible, horrible moment, Kurt thinks Mr Anderson is going to say something homophobic, or simple get up and leave.

But he doesn't; he looks between his son's face and Kurt's slowly, eyes roaming over their expressions, and then chuckles. "'Bout time."

For a moment, he sounds so like Burt that Kurt can do little more than blink. As it happens, his sudden lack of brain function doesn't seem to matter because Blaine and his dad are looking at each other, both seemingly surprised at the words now floating in the air between them.

"You should've told me, Blaine. We can arrange that football game we talked about."

"What football game?" Kurt asks and Mr Anderson looks back at him.

"Blaine and I thought it might be fun to all go to a game sometime."

Kurt wonders if it's the first time the phrase 'Blaine and I' has ever crossed his lips.

"It'll be the wrong season now, dad."

Mr Anderson shrugs. "So we'll go next year. What do you say, Kurt?"

Kurt hates watching football with a passion, but there's no way he's turning down an invitation from Mr Anderson, not when it's clearly an invite to so much more than a stupid game.

Blaine knows him too well, though. "Don't worry, I'll buy you a new scarf to wear. And I'll pay for your snacks."

Kurt honest-to-God giggles and smacks a hand over his mouth, grinning into his palm as he soaks in the look of pure happiness on Blaine's face. It takes Kurt back to those first few months of dating, back when everything was a giddy rush, more _I can't believe this is happening_ than _this is forever_. It was freeing in a way that their relationship hasn't been since Blaine transferred to McKinley, yet Kurt wouldn't exchange what they have now for the world. Because those first shy dates and tentative kisses might have made his head swirl with excitement, but that's nothing compared to how he feels now. The way that Blaine knows him so completely, even those insecurities that his 16 year old self didn't fully comprehend, the way that Blaine accepts all of those things about him, makes him feel an incomparable kind of giddy; it buzzes just underneath his skin, a euphoric rush each time Blaine catches his gaze. He doesn't love Blaine the same way he did when they first fell together, but he loves him _more_. He loves him completely.

Mr Anderson coughs. "Right, well, I'll leave you boys to it. Just came to ask if you wanted me to get you something to eat, Blaine? I know this hospital food is beyond crappy and I'm headed to the store anyway."

"Ooh, yes, please. Just get whatever looks appetising and easy to eat with plastic utensils. Oooh and d'you think I can get some pastries and Nutella for breakfast tomorrow—Kurt, don't even bother, I know granola is healthier, but it's not as delicious." Kurt laughs, mouth snapping shut. "And dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

It's another moment before Kurt hears the door to Blaine's room shut and he looks away until he does, not wanting to intrude on their moment. Oh God, Blaine and his father are actually having a moment.

Kurt doesn't know what to say after that, he feels sort of like he does when he's just woken up from a nap, and apparently Blaine's in the same boat because he remains quiet, too.

"Kurt?" Blaine says eventually, picking at the blanket on his lap.

"Yeah, honey?"

Blaine glances up at him from underneath his long eyelashes. "What would you do if I was next to you right now?"

The shriek that Kurt makes can probably be heard down the entire hospital corridor, but he can't bring himself to care—not when Blaine is grinning like the adorable idiot on pain meds that he is.

**A/N: Well, there's only one more chapter to go after this. I haven't fully decided if I'm going to do a sequel. I have some ideas, but I might go with a couple of new stories first. **


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N: Before I post the final chapter, I just wanted to write a little bit about the journey of this story (cheese warning…)**

**I write from a place of hurt, but this story is also from a place of love; it has come to mean so much to me, more so than I thought it would at when I wrote the first chapter (which, incidentally, wasn't about Blaine when it was conceived). I know there aren't that many people who've been following it from the beginning, but I just wanted to say thank you to those of you who have been. In fact, thank you to anyone who has read it, or taken the time to leave a review, because you all unequivocally inspired me to keep writing. It was harder than I thought to write this happy ending, probably because I don't think I've found my own just yet, but I'm getting there. It's been an incredibly cathartic learning experience and I'm in the process of writing more multi-chaptered fic as a result. I don't care what some people say about fanfiction—it's every bit as enjoyable to write and read as other forms of fiction. **

**Thank you all for reading this little story and thank you, Blaine, for encouraging me to finally cut the cord. **

_Five months later._

Blaine sits on the couch in the Hudson-Hummel's house and lets his gaze trail over the various knickknacks scattered throughout the room. He has always admired how seamlessly two families and all their possessions and sentimentalities can integrate into something so natural and homely. He thinks of the front room in his house, the untouched furniture and neutral artwork reserved for guest's eyes only and almost feels sad, but then he thinks of the newly-instated pictures of himself on his father's desk and smiles, especially when he remembers how eagerly his dad had offered to drop him off at Kurt's this morning.

Burt had even invited his dad in for coffee, but he'd politely declined with an excuse about going over last minute investment notes. It's only a flimsy excuse if you know him well; then you would realise that there's no way Mr Anderson would leave such vital preparation to the day before a meeting. He'd nodded vaguely to Burt's promise of a dinner invite soon, humming non-committedly, but not refusing either. And that's okay with Blaine because he knows that his dad is trying. Maybe that's all that anyone can ask of another human being in the end.

Plus, Blaine is starting to suspect that he's not the only one who puts on a façade to hide just how exhausting interacting with others can be, especially when trying to make a good impression, or play a part perfectly. Turns out him and his father were stood on the same side of the battlefield this whole time, both firing pointlessly into an empty field. So, no, his father isn't going to be winning any father of the year awards any time soon, but it's amazing what a little mutual empathy can do for a relationship.

As if reading his mind, Kurt plops down on the couch next to him and says, "You and your dad seem to be getting on okay still?"

"Yeah, we are." It feels indescribably good to be able to say that without lying through his teeth.

Kurt smiles at him, but his eyes have an oddly sad quality to them.

"What?"

"Nothing." Kurt replies automatically and then shakes his head when Blaine raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "No, really, it's nothing. I was just thinking about how much you're going to miss him in the fall."

"We're not _that_ close…"

"He's still your dad, though, and I bet you're going to miss him like crazy. He's going to miss you, too."

Blaine shrugs. "It'll be worth it."

Kurt shares one of those grins with him, the mutual excitement palpable in the air between them. "Yeah, it will."

"I still can't quite believe it's going to happen."

Kurt throws a cushion at him, but it barely clips his ear much to his amusement; Kurt's never had the best aim. "For the millionth time, _of course _you got into NYADA because you are crazy talented and blew your audition out of the water – I was there, remember? And you're going to live your own incredible New York dream because you've worked hard and you deserve it. I don't know anyone who deserves it more actually."

"Shut up."

Kurt just raises his hands in mock placation, knowing he's won, even as Blaine squirms at his words.

People always tell Blaine that he's too self-deprecating, that his inability to accept compliments is only endearing up to a point. It's as if, in their minds, he does it on purpose, as if it's an act that he puts on to seem flawless, but it's not a conscious effort at all; there's just something so inherently awkward about acknowledging your own strengths. If he agrees, he raises people's expectations, acknowledging that he is actively striving towards that trait and hence letting them down when he inevitably stops displaying it. If he doesn't agree, he automatically exposes himself as vulnerable, a person whose self-worth literally relies on the opinions of others. Either way it weakens him and for years he had dreaded compliments of any sort. He remembers the distress of those first few months of friendship with Kurt, how Kurt had complimented him in every other sentence, unaware that he was making Blaine deflate with each overstated word.

It's different now, of course. Kurt isn't viewing him through rose-tinted glasses and Blaine knows that there is at least some truth to his words—even if he didn't, he trusts Kurt's judgement of him now in a way that he couldn't have when they'd first met; Kurt _knows_ him—but, still, the onslaught of compliments tugs his face into the barest hint of a frown.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asks after a moment and Blaine knows he's referring to more than the slight crease of his forehead. For the most part, Kurt has stopped treating Blaine like a vase teetering on the verge of falling, but there's always an underlying edge to his concern. '_Did you have a good day?'_ holds a gravity behind the mundane tone and '_Are you okay?'_ refers to a deeper sort of wellbeing than his immediate mood.

Blaine shrugs, but offers Kurt a smile. "Define 'okay'…"

Kurt picks at a barely-noticeable loose thread on his lightweight sweater.

"Point taken." He says after a while and it feels like one of those moments that could easily descend into an argument for no apparent reason.

"I wasn't making a point." Blaine protests, stopping Kurt's hand from fiddling further with his clothing.

"I know," He's smiling when he looks up, much to Blaine's relief. "I'm going to go get some of my tailoring scissors to deal with this." He gestures down at his sweater and Blaine grins at how very _Kurt _the obsessive need to keep his clothes pristine is.

"Okay."

Blaine counts his footsteps up and then back down the stairs a moment later, laying his head back against the top of the couch.

Kurt comes back into the room and sits down, noisily snipping at thin air with the scissors now clutched in his hand. He makes no move to attack the unruly thread.

"_Okay_ doesn't need a definition." Kurt states suddenly and Blaine's eyes slide up from his hands to his face. Slowly, Kurt sinks back into the couch, his shoulder against Blaine's so that when he, too, leans his head backwards, their eyes are level.

"Point taken."

Kurt laughs and the air puffs out over Blaine's cheek, slightly too warm. "Good, because I _was _making one."

"Aren't you always?"

Kurt's only answer is to lean in and kiss him slowly, mouths just a little bit dry until their tongues meet. There's none of the urgency of two teenagers who need too much and have too little time, but there is an unspoken reverence, a knowledge that neither of them are going to take this feeling for granted ever again.

Blaine pulls back first after a moment, breathless as always, and takes the scissors which had been getting dangerously close to his stomach from Kurt's hands, placing them carefully on the table instead.

"Ooh, I almost forgot about the cronuts!" Kurt's sudden exclamation breaks the charged silence as he leaps off the couch.

"What?"

"Well, I figured I'd introduce to a staple of the New York diet. Ge you accustomed to it and all that."

"Cronuts as in those half-donut, half-croissant things?"

"Yep, they are heaven in a pastry."

"Better than cheesecake?" Blaine asks sceptically, settling back into his previous position.

Kurt looks pained. "Ughhh…maybe? Yes? God, I feel like I'm being unfaithful to my cheesecake now. Hang on, you can decide for yourself."

The words trigger a little jolt in Blaine's chest as Kurt leaves the room in search of the pastries—he reckons they always will do—but the guilt isn't all-consuming anymore, easily eclipsed by the new experiences waiting for Blaine. Yes, they are only pastry snacks, but as he sits there waiting, he knows his anticipation is for so much more than that. He's excited about all the new things that Kurt is going to show him, and the things that he'll find out for himself, in New York, the cityscape he's dreamed of falling into since he was six years old.

As the excitement surges through him, he closes his eyes and lets his emotions float, unimpeded, through his entire body until it's thrumming with excited energy. He feels like a balloon. He's been drifting, always drifting, since middle school when his thoughts and feelings could no longer be compartmentalised, or defined by those around him. The weightlessness no longer scares him, though; he knows the he doesn't need to be imperishably attached to someone to stop himself from falling. Drifting along might be daunting, but it's the only way to keep moving, and he knows that people are right next to him, strings proffered, should he need a moment of respite, a temporary anchor while he re-inflates himself. He can't control the wind and people are going to float into and away from him all the time, but they're not holding his string so they can't let go of him; if he falls, it will be under his own steam.

He has been a balloon for far too long to let it faze him; he's proud of it. He can't wait to float onwards, free and unencumbered, lighter and more versatile than the people down below him. He's not completely full of air and he doesn't have an attractive, water resistant smile drawn onto him, but he is about to have a new, busier skyline to drift through at his own messy pace and it's going to be flawlessly perfect, just the way he likes it. He's going to fly.

**A/N: And for what, I suppose, is the last time: any thoughts?**


End file.
